Fallon and Flint: The Stripper and the Schoolteacher

Holden Caulfield, Lacey Mercury, and Fair Trades

Flint

Dodger High School. Five hundred students. Barely twenty teachers. Out of the five hundred students, about three hundred of them are boys. Of the three hundred boys at Dodger High, about two hundred of them are in gangs. About one hundred of them do serious drugs, and almost all of them do at least some drugs. Many parents of daughters in Dodger, and even some parents of sons, leave town entirely when they recognize the dangers their children face.

Out of all five hundred students, I only know one or two who actually care to learn anything.

English isn’t as bad as some classes, as far as I’m concerned. At least I don’t have to imprint a certain timeline or basis for the future onto them. I don’t have to teach them anything about history, or any theories of mathematics or sciences. They know how to read, for the most part. I know better than to think I can get them to read what I want them to. Occasionally I try books like Fight Club, which I imagine feel more familiar to them, but usually a parent complains. So, for the most part, I try to talk to them. I tell them about the power of the pen; about how good it is to have an outlet for what they feel; about how important literature is to the world. And, for the most part, they ignore me.

In my class that day—a fourth period Freshman American Literature in which I attempt to have my students read Catcher in the Rye—there is one person in particular who seems to take an actual interest in the class. Her name is Lacey Mercury. I’ve noticed her before today, of course; she’s one of my brightest students, passing my class with flying colors. I’ve spoken with the other teachers about her a few times and learned that they don’t give her quite as much credit; according to them, she skips class much too often and has been caught in the stairwells with several different boys. But I’m not bothered by any of that; it’s typical Dodger High behavior, long since accepted by me. She’s a good student when she does show up, and that’s what matters to me.

I’m discussing a passage with them that always hit me very hard—the scene where Holden Caulfield walks down a road late at night, feeling like he’s about to disappear.

“Now, I find it very interesting, the term Salinger uses here,” I tell the class. “Disappear. What do you guys think? Is Holden literally concerned that he will cease to exist?”

A few of my students snort at that, and a few more exchange sarcastic looks. No one raises their hands.

I glance around the room for my first victim. I like to pick on the most awful ones first. They always have an amusingly ridiculous thing or two to say. I settle for the doped-up football quarterback in the back row. “Mr. Donovan—enlighten us.”

The quarterback glares at me before glancing around at his peers. When he finally seems to come up with an answer, he looks back at me. “Okay, the way I see it, the dude probably stumbled upon an invisibility cloak and is suffering, like, internal conflict over whether or not to wear it.”

 Everyone in the room bursts out laughing. A few students around him high five him. I don’t mind; I find it every bit as entertaining as they do.

“Interesting theory,” I say, nodding. “You seem to have your stories mixed up, but it is nice to know that you have read something… even if it was on a third-grade reading level.”

The class bursts into laughter again, something I can’t help but feel a bit satisfied with. Although the older teachers have the experience edge over me, I have a feeling I have a little more of my students’ respect than they do, being closer to them in age. Several of my female students have even attempted to seduce me in the past—an issue I try to avoid thinking about.

“What about you, Miss Mercury?” I ask Lacey. If I’m not mistaken, she has read the book. She doesn’t always read them, but it seems like her kind of book—all about identity, struggle, love, and sensitivity. Lacey Mercury seems to have a lot of sensitivity.

When she looks up at me, I sense resentment in her gaze. Lacey doesn’t like to be called on. Her big, blue eyes plead at me with a mixture of sadness and frustration as she tugs nervously at her bright, blond hair. But I’m not going to help her out of this one.

Finally she speaks. “Okay.” Her voice is soft as silk. She’s one of the prettiest little things I’ve ever seen, really; I hope that, given the slim pickings of decent boys at her school, she’ll eventually manage to find one worthy of her. “Well, I guess I think of it as a loneliness thing. He’s at a really low point in his life and he doesn’t feel like he has anyone, and when you don’t have people, no one will notice if you’re gone. You know… disappear.”

It’s exactly the take I always had on the passage, and yet hearing it from her makes it suddenly so much more sad. I stare at her for several seconds, basking in the pure emotion of what she just said. Silence fills the room, and I hope for a brief second that her words influenced her peers as much as they influenced me.

And then the girl next to her says, “Jesus, Lace—he’s not gonna sleep with you for reading the books. Buy a push-up bra and grow a pair, would you?”

The boy next to her whistles immaturely, the girl in front of him winks blatantly at me, and the boy behind Lacey bends forward to bite her ear. I watch her sink lower into her seat in shame for ever having spoken up at all.

“Or,” Lacey mutters, although she can barely be heard over the fun being poked at her expense, “maybe he just found an invisibility cloak.”

Some days more than others, I really hate my job.

Fallon

Because I’m the most popular dancer at Atlantis, I’m given the best hours: ten to two. Granted, four hours of dancing takes a lot out of me, but they treat me pretty well there. I get a lot of breaks. My boss knows I need them. Besides, some of the girls don’t get off until four or even five in the morning. The club is open almost all night, mainly for the truckers that roll into town and want a drink, a lap dance, and a grope before getting on the road again.

It’s long since been established that Damon picks me up every night, but it’s also long since been established that he’s late very often. I have some degree of sympathy; being the biggest drug dealer in town comes with a few extra responsibilities, and since a portion of his income goes to me and my family, I can’t protest too heavily. But that night, having waited in the back parking lot of Atlantis for two hours already, my patience is wearing thin.

I’ve called him twice already, once at two-thirty and again at three. He answered at two-thirty, telling me he was on my way; of course, he sounded drunk off his ass, so I had little faith. By three, he didn’t answer at all, and I haven’t bothered since. He’ll get here eventually. And if he doesn’t, I’ll grab a ride home with one of the late shift girls in an hour or so.

But just as I’m convincing myself of that, I get a call that changes my mind.

“Fally,” Hugh says to me, and I know instantly that something is wrong—not only because of the shakes in his voice, but also because he never calls me Fally unless he needs something. “Fally—I need it. I’m shaking—I’m sweating—I think I’m dying.”

I’m not sure if he’s lying or not. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then again, ever since our spat a few days ago, Damon has refused to give Hugh any more drugs. He assured me that it wasn’t permanent, but rather that it would last until Hugh learned his lesson. But I’ve seen my father nearly die going cold turkey before, and I’m not sure he can take it again.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” I say, biting my lip. “Damon isn’t here and I don’t have a ride—”

“Can you walk?” he asks desperately. “Take a cab? Please, Fally, I’m telling you—”

“I thought I heard voices out here.”

I nearly drop the phone, jumping up off the overturned trash can I’m sitting on and turning to face the voice behind me. I relax the slightest bit when I see that it’s a businessman, not a gangster. Still, in my experience, a dog is a dog; I remain on my guard.

“Look, I can’t walk, and there's no cabs,” I mutter into the phone. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” And I hang up.

The man smiles dangerously at me, taking a few steps forward. He’s fairly attractive, I suppose; salt-and-pepper hair; dark eyes; sharp features. Probably in his mid-forties. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s one of the Fortune 500 CEO’s from a few towns over who likes to blow off steam on the one edge of the earth where no one will think to follow them. We get those from time to time. The men rarely bring much money or goods on them, so as not to be mugged or robbed, and always seem to come back for more.

“You need a ride home, I assume?” he asks, gesturing to my phone.

“No—my boyfriend’s on his way.” A lie, of course, concocted for my own safety.

“Sure,” the man says, nodding. “You got off two hours ago, and he’s on his way now.”

“Look, thanks for the offer, but I really—”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Fallon. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you.” I freeze in fear as he reaches out to touch my face. “I’ve been coming to this club every chance I’ve gotten for the past four years, watching you dance. I only want one thing.”

I take a step back.

“Fair trade, isn’t it?” he pushes. “You need a ride pretty bad, from the sound of things. Someone at home’s pretty desperate for your help. And in the scheme of things, I’d say the offer isn’t too much to ask—just give me a ride in return.”

No part of me wants to do this. It’s not just that Damon would kill us both if he found out; it’s also that, somehow, s*x still means a lot to me, and every single time I do it against my will, no matter how many times it happens, it still hurts. 

But I learned to accept that pain a long time ago, and there’s a chance that, at this moment, my father really is dying.

Besides… does it really matter? What’s the difference between warming one man’s back seat and another’s?

“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s go.”

He has a nice car—an Escalade with a gorgeous, leather interior. He’s put the lights and music to the perfect settings, which helps. He’s a little too aggressive and a little too forceful with me, but it’s nothing I haven’t experienced a million times before; the eager way he paws at me and slams himself into me reminds me of how Damon was when we first got together. Some of the things he mutters in my ear make me hate myself even more than I already do, but I’ve heard them before, too; there seems to be something indescribably sexy to men about calling their partners whores and sluts while they f**k them. 

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that bad. It doesn’t last long, and when it’s over, he puts the keys in the ignition, drives me home, and lets me go—just as we agreed.

Something is wrong, I realize the second I put my key in the door to my house. I hear footsteps, quick and shuffled, and voices—are they shouts?

Who else is in my house?

I reach into my purse and pull out my pepper spray before thrusting the door open. 

I drop the pepper spray in disbelief the moment I lay eyes on them.

“Lacey!” I nearly scream, running up to my niece, who looks to be in the middle of a heated argument with Hugh as he tosses and turns on the sofa, blindly reaching out as if to grab her. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you!” Lacey shouts desperately. Tears are streaming down her pretty, little face, and I can tell the poor girl already knows she’s made a mistake. Not wanting to make things worse for her, I gently take her hand and lead her into my bedroom.

“Wait here,” I tell my niece, trying to sound as calm as I can, given the situation. “I’ll be right back.”

Giving Lacey a last once-over to make sure she’s okay, I head back to the living room, shutting my bedroom door behind me. When I reach Hugh, I cross my arms. He’s managed to stop writhing for the moment.

“What did you do?” I ask him, voice darker than it’s been in a long time.

“You look terrible.” His eyes glint deceitfully. “Damon have some fun with you on the ride home? Oh, wait—you said he wasn’t picking you up.”

Some days, I manage to love my father despite everything. Today isn’t one of those days. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! You really think I’d try? I know how you feel about that girl, Fallon, and I know the first thing you’d do is go complaining to your f*****g boyfriend—”

“You’re wrong,” I say, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t. Because if I told him you so much as touched her… He would kill you, Hugh. Kill you.”

For the first time all night, Hugh is silent.

“What did you say to her?” I demand.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I told her I was dying!” he shouts. “I am dying! If you didn’t bring me anything—if I don’t get it fast—”

“You’re pathetic.” I fish through my purse, pulling out the small stash I still have from the last time Damon supplied me, and throw it at him in disgust. It's coke, not heroin, like he really wants, but he'll take what he can get. “I don’t want you talking to her. Ever.”

“It’s not you who controls me, Fallon.” He’s not looking at me; he’s much too busy preparing the drugs for use. “Remember that.”

“Isn’t it? Remind me, who is it that does blow every f*****g day to get up the nerve and strength to dance in front of a bunch of pigs, addicts, and thugs to pay our bills? Who is that f***s the most despicable guy in this town to keep a roof over our heads and drugs in our systems? Do you think for one second that if you went too far—if you f****d up too bad—I wouldn’t cut you off in a second?”

For a split second, I think I see regret in his eyes—sadness, even guilt, for everything he puts me through. But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone, and he laughs in my face.

“You’d never cut me off, Fallon.” His eyes glaze over as the drugs take hold. “You’re too weak.”

The sad thing is, I muse as I turn away from him and head back to my niece, he’s probably right.

“I’m sorry,” Lacey says the moment I enter.

A part of me just wants to collapse onto my bed next to her, to hold her and protect her and lie there forever, escaping the harsh realities of the world we live in. But I can’t. Life goes on.

“You know I always love to see you, Lace.” I mean it; Lacey is the best part of my life, no competition. I love that girl like my own daughter. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you broke the most important rule I have ever given you. You can’t come over here unannounced, Lace. Especially late at night.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I guess I just—I mean, you get off at two, and I know Damon takes you home, but I thought maybe he’d gone to bed by now and—”

“Damon’s not the only reason you can’t come over,” I remind her. “You know that.”

Lacey glances at the door as if remembering the conversation she just had with Hugh. She seems to understand. “I know. I didn’t know, but… I get it now. I should have listened.”

It’s so hard to be mad at Lacey, especially at that moment. The girl’s big, blue eyes are bright red, her blond hair a complete mess, her pretty, white dress stained from tears. I cross the room and sit next to Lacey on the bed, reaching out to hold her. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like a mother.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s her,” she sniffs, burying her head in my chest. She suddenly seems a lot younger than fourteen. “Mom. I can’t take it anymore, Fal. She hates me. She has these guys over and she lets them say and do whatever they want to me and—”

My heart nearly stops, and I pull Lacey away from me, expression hardening. I look her straight in the eyes. “What do you mean, do whatever they want to you?”

She bites her lip. “Not like that. I mean, I haven’t been with any of them, even though they look at me like they’d like it. They push me around, though, Fal—they shove me, and sometimes they slap me, and they say nasty things—”

“I’ll talk to her.” It disgusts me that the things she’s saying relax me, but they do. The thought of anyone pushing Lacey around sickens me, but it’s a very tricky thing for me to fix. If they were sexually abusing or beating her, though… Well, it’s a hard line for me. I would find a way, even if it killed me. “Listen, Lacey. If any of them ever tries to touch you in that way, or to hit you, I want you to tell me. Okay?”

Lacey nods. “I will.”

“I want you to swear to me.”

“I swear.”

“Okay.” I sigh. “Now, listen. Stay here tonight. You’ll sleep in in the morning, and I’ll ride the city bus in with you and excuse your lateness with the office. And I’ll give Mel a call and tell her you’re okay. But you’re gonna have to go home with her after school tomorrow.”

A tear streams down her cheek. “Are you sure I can’t come live with you?”

“You know I wish you could.” I mean it from the bottom of my heart. “But even if she let you, it’s no good for you here. Not with him.”

“Then what if you switched? What if you came to live with me, and she came here?”

“That’s not an option, either, Lace. But, God, I wish it was.”