"Clean Slate" by Sacha Bissonnette
- Roi Fainéant
- 6 days ago
- 5 min read
The first house that she cleans they sit on the couch and scan her. She's always hated that. They've hired her but clearly distrust strangers. She wonders if they are high, or enjoy this weird voyeuristic service. She's not that girl but she has the numbers for that kind of thing. She wonders if they are happy. Or if they think she'll take something. It makes her want to take something. When she has a house she'll clean it herself.
The second house belongs to a solitary man. He's simple despite his turtlenecks. He asks only that she always dust a few things. Mainly his writing achievements, old scrabble trophies. A picture of his mom that he has centered above his study. He usually doesn't stay and when he leaves the house he makes sure to mention the restaurant he's going to. He has money and pays well. Smiles often. This is a good house.
The third house is more of a penthouse. She can see her city. See the four blocks where she grew up. The preschool where she met her first friend. They used to arrange Alphagettis into attempted words or played doctor and nurse. She saw that friend recently, bagging her eggs and oat milk at the local grocer. He still smiles with his eyes, still looks trustworthy, and kind.
A few blocks past the preschool is the elementary she attended. She remembers playing red ass, the pinch and then sting of the bright tennis ball on the soft of her bum. She can still feel it now.
She has three things she can always recall from around that age, from grade five to seven. The third is a happy memory. Her mother was excited to see her off. It was her first sugar shack and coming from the intense scorch of Trinidadian summers, she was fascinated by how the maple syrup hardened on the snow. She had seen a violin played before but not like this. Not with all the jumping up and down, the hips swaying from side to side. She looked around and saw other kids who were different, like her. She remembered the golden brown's sweet taste, like sugarcane, but also different. It was the first time she was not anxious. The first time she thought that maybe she could belong here.
The second memory still burns. Still makes her stomach turn. The boys had chased her into a corner at recess. They teased and pulled at her hair, bounced her off the fence a few times. She had made the mistake of telling Jess she thought of the blonde boy sometimes, not realizing that sometimes Jess did too. Jess shared this publicly and the humiliation began. As her back hit the fence the fourth time she slumped to the ground. Through the slits of her wet hands she could see Jess looking from across the court, not running to tell, or running to help. She had not known cruelty until then.
It was that same year but winter. The game was simple. Get on top of the hill. Hold your ground. Then you shall be crowned King of the hill. Queen in her case. She was on fire. Killing it. She had hit a growth spurt and had some size on the other kids. Even bigger than a few of the boys. She had the stretch marks to show for it. But no boy, let alone her mother, would see those for a few years later.
After twenty minutes of pushing and tripping and stumbling around, fighting to hold position, she was exhausted. Jess saw this as an opportunity and clocked that she could attack from her blind spot. Knew she could catch her off guard, push her to the ground and take the crown. But it didn't quite go like that. She pretended not to see Jess coming and at the last second she dodged the assault and countered by sticking her leg out, tripping Jess from the top of the hill.
She stood over Jess and watched as she cried, gripping her twisted arm. She thought of the day she told her about the crush, how scared she was, how she needed to tell someone. How she didn't understand what she was feeling deep in her stomach. She looked at Jess and felt the wire of the fence in her back again, the humiliation. She got closer, and filled her hands with snow.
“Say sorry Jess, you never said sorry.”
“No….You bitch.”
All that collected snow started to melt and her hands were wet again. She must’ve shot Jess with such a nasty look because Jess got scared, tried to pull away. She grabbed more snow, started dumping it on Jess’s face, throwing it even.
Giving Jess a chance to apologize never tamed the guilt or stopped her stomach from turning upside down whenever she thinks of it. She got suspended that day, Jess didn’t. She had never been cruel until then.
The last memory is a funny one. She still doesn’t know what to think of it. One of the boys that bullied her asked her to the school dance with a note that read. “I don’t care that you’re different, can we go together?” Not so romantic, but she had never been asked before.
That night when the chaperones weren’t looking he pulled her in close, she had never been held like that, not with tenderness, not from a boy. He took his shot aimed for her mouth but caught her tooth. Chipped it a little. This is how she remembers her first kiss.
When she’s done cleaning the penthouse she busses home. She's greeted by her cat rubbing up against her leg. She grabs a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and slumps down on the couch. She notices a stain on the cushion. She rubs at it. Nothing. She tries again. No luck. She thinks about grabbing a rag, but quickly abandons the idea.