A hazy memory of last year’s history class was surfacing, a PowerPoint about some kind of riots, and— Wait, she said. Is this the guy with the—
What was that word? She tried to picture it on the slide, but even if she could, she wouldn’t have known how to say it aloud.
You know, the head chopper thing?
So you do know!
But he killed a lot of people!
Sometimes violence is necessary for change, Slash said calmly. You don’t think so?
I don’t know, she said. What about, like, MLK?
Slash rolled his eyes.
Martin Luther King wasn’t some hippie, he said. That’s just how white people _______ after they murdered him.
How white people what? said Charlie.
Trussed him up. T-r-u-s-s. It’s like, how you tie up a turkey’s legs.
I don’t get it.
Charlie was losing the thread. She didn’t know what a turkey had to do with anything, and besides that, she was bemused by the way Slash talked about white people as if he himself were not paler even than her mother, nearly translucent, so that his veins ran bright green beneath his skin. She shrugged.
Look, he said. Say you’ve got cancer. A huge tumor! You’re not just going to leave it in there. So, what do you do?
Get surgery? she said.
Exactly. Cut out the bad stuff. Surely there’s something in your life you’d be better off without?
Probably a few things, Charlie thought—her implant, math class, maybe even her mom—though whether she was willing to cut any of it out to the degree Slash was suggesting, something so permanent, she wasn’t sure.
I guess, she said.
That’s all the guillotine was.
Guillotine! She reached her hand out to touch his neck again, made him repeat himself, trying to reconcile Slash’s Robespierre with the considerably more criminal one projected on the cinder-block wall of Mr. Brewer’s classroom.
You know, Robespierre also helped _______ slavery, pushed back against church corruption— He helped slavery?
No he helped ab-o-lish it. It means get rid of. Probably wouldn’t have learned that at Jeff, though, even if you could hear.
Charlie traced the outline of his tattoo and felt a sudden rush of affection for him, a sugary burn at the base of her throat. Though she still didn’t understand exactly what had inspired his transformation, it was undeniably intriguing. She leaned over the side of the bed and dug through her pants in search of her phone, handed it to him. He seemed confused.
You said you were getting a new phone number?
He looked at her outstretched arm, suddenly sheepish.
Sorry, C. I can’t.
Right, she said.
It’s not you.
She slid from the bed and scooped up her clothes, but standing made her light-headed, and she had to sit again to flip her jeans right side in. Slash looked like he wanted to say something more, but she turned away; though she had inherited her father’s complexion, she still blushed bright red when she was upset, and especially when she was embarrassed. Why did she always manage to put herself on the back foot? If he had wanted to see her again, he would have asked. She wondered if there was something to her mother’s ideas about dating and demureness after all.
Seriously, he said, stepping in front of her so she could see him again. I’m going off the grid for a while.
Whatever. I’m not trying to get with you or anything.
Slash looked over her shoulder at his rumpled sheets.
I mean, I don’t date hearing guys.
Not anymore, she said.
Slash looked down at her hands. Charlie could tell she had thrown him.
Oh. Fair enough, then.
Her belongings—wallet, keys, phone, processor—were strewn on the floor and she struggled to gather them. It seemed impossible that she’d gotten it all here in the pockets of her jeans.
Wanna get breakfast? he said.
The mention of food reminded her how hungover she was, flipped her stomach.
I’m good. I better head out.
She reattached her CI to give herself one less thing to carry and was jolted when the wail of a passing siren drilled through the center of her head. Without the drugs, sound was once again her enemy, neither velvety nor exhilarating. Slash pulled on his boxers, placed a row of kisses along her collarbone that made her knees go to gelatin.
Well, I’ll come let you out at least, he said. The _______ kind of heavy.
The what? she said.
Slash didn’t answer, but as they emerged into the front room, she saw the house had been stripped to its subflooring, and its windows were boarded up from the outside. A thick orange extension cord ran the length of the room, powering its sole light source: a lamp perched on a cardboard box.
On the couch, an unsightly brown corduroy affair, Greg was passed out, head hanging off the cushion over a bucket. The room reeked of vomit, but Slash didn’t seem to notice.
Does the whole band live here?
Slash nodded, surveyed Greg.
Glad someone dragged his ass back home, he said.
Then Slash opened the front door, revealing a piece of plywood he slid to one side and ducked beneath. Outside on the stoop it was too bright, but cool enough to shock a break in her nausea. She watched gooseflesh spread across Slash’s chest.
Go inside, said Charlie.
Come back to the Gas Can sometime?
Maybe, she said.
He tried to kiss her goodbye, but she only offered him her cheek. Then she left. Slash watched her to the end of the street, arms crossed against the morning cold, and she saw him slip back behind the board as she rounded the corner. She was clammy, her mouth putrid and dry. She stopped in a Circle K and bought a bottle of water, then walked in the direction of Colson Center until she found a bus stop.
Though she’d probably only miss first period, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to school, so she went to her father’s and stood in the shower for a very long time.
Afterward she plugged in her phone and was immediately greeted by a series of increasingly frantic texts from her mother, most of them a variation of “where are u?”
school? Charlie tried.
yeah right some robot just called & said ur absent.
A robot called u?
WHERE RU
Still at dad’s. I feel sick.
jesus christ
Sry. Didn’t mean to scare u.
Have your father call u out then.
ok, said Charlie. She texted her dad, threw herself across her bed, googled “Robespierre,” then cried into her shirtsleeve until she fell asleep.
Maximilien Robespierre
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
“Robespierre” redirects here. For other uses, see Robespierre （disambiguation）
Maximilien Fran?ois Marie Isidore de Robespierre （6 May 1758 –28 July 1794） was a lawyer and influential leader of the French Revolution. He spoke on behalf of citizens he considered “voiceless”—typically those without property, education, or other resources—and advocated for their right to bear arms, be in the military, and hold public office. He also campaigned for universal suffrage among men, the abolition of slavery, and to remove the celibacy requirement for clergy.
In part because of his work, the French Monarchy fell on August 10, 1792, and a National Convention was summoned. There Robespierre called for an end to feudal practices, equality before the law, and direct democracy, though he was later accused of trying to establish a dictatorship.