As soon as the aisle was empty, I turned back to pull a few sexual assault books down from the shelves and immediately hugged them to my chest. I didn’t want anyone to see the titles. Then I found a table in the darkest corner of our library and pulled out a chair, which made a fingernails-on-the chalkboard sound.
I froze, thinking the lights had just brightened with a spotlight centered on me. Swallowing hard, I stood there for, like, five seconds, waiting for the whole library to come running and point at the books in my arms.
When none of this happened, I placed the books on the tabletop with Machiavelli strategically set on top. I looked right and left, waiting until the coast was clear.
I finally opened Against Our Will. Then I started to read. And read. And read.
I discovered stuff I never imagined, much less knew. Like, for example, how rape initially was barely considered a crime, and then only in terms of the property violations. Weird! Hundreds of years ago, punishment barely happened and then only when irate husbands said the rapist had damaged his property.
Being a man’s property? Right.
Long ago, they called raped women adulteresses and then punished them, even if they had been horribly beaten or injured. In ancient Hebrew times, raped women were considered defiled and often stoned to death. Wow!
I guess it’s not that different today. Back when I was in ninth grade, I heard about this chick who was raped and stabbed by some guys that had given her a ride. Ended up in the hospital for a week.
When she came back to school, no one would talk to her. I remember when she walked by, people would give her a wide berth and say, “That’s the girl who was raped.”
People didn’t throw stones, except with their looks. She ended up dropping out of school. I don’t know what happened to her after that.
One book said that a lot changed in 1974, after the rape of Joan Little by a jail guard in Beaufort County, North Carolina. She was a black prisoner in the County Jail when a white jailer attacked her. She broke away from her rapist, killed him with an ice pick he had taken into her cell, and then broke out of jail. When she was later caught and charged with murder, there was a national outcry for justice for her, and a jury acquitted her.
When I read what her lawyer, Angela Davis, said, I was blown away. “All people who see themselves as members of the existing community of struggle for justice, equality, and progress have a responsibility to fulfill toward Joan Little.”
Fuck, yeah! She should have been protected in jail.
After that and a few cases like it, rape crisis centers, consciousness-raising groups, and protests began to emerge. A friggin’ grass roots movement took shape and rocking women offered self-defense classes and broke their silence in ‘take back the night’ marches.
I wanted to be like them.
Taking notes, I imagined marching for people like Joan Little. We’d take to the streets and demand justice. We’d teach girls self-defense and prevent all kinds of shit.
Yep. Someday.
Thirty-Six
Joy
“Come on, Joy! Hurry up. Your hauh looks fine,” Janice called from the other side of the bathroom door.
I looked in the mirror. Not really. Little hairs that’d escaped my brush stuck up all over. I turned on the faucet and wet it down. Thought it was working, but pretty quickly it turned into a frizzy mess. Brushed it again and leaned closer.
“Shit!”
“What?” Janice called.
“A zit. A freaking new zit.”
“Let me in.”
I opened the door and pointed to the center of my forehead, where an angry red pimple had started to grow.
“I’m going to be a cyclops for the party. Man. I shouldn’t even go.”
“Shut up,” Janice said, rummaging in her purse. She pulled out a Cover Stick and twisted it open. “Sit down and I’ll fix it.”
Not believing it possible to hide the protrusion that seemed to be growing like some sort of alien presence by the second, I plopped down on the closed toilet seat.
“Lean closau,” Janice said, holding the make-up stick poised over my head.
Shaking my head, I scooted a little closer. Janice dabbed at my forehead.
I jerked back. “Ouch!”
“Hold still.”
“But it hurts.” I stuck out my lower lip and tried to keep from wriggling.
Janice’s touch was no gentler this time. If anything, rougher. But after a few applications, she managed to hide the alien creature growing in the middle of my forehead. Sort-of.
“Thanks.”
“Russ and Lisa are waiting. Let’s go.”
Outside, Lisa stood next to Russ’s Valiant, wearing a skintight tee and a camera hanging from a strap around her neck
“What is that?” Janice asks, pointing.
“A Polaroid One Step. I’m going to document this epic night in full color,” Lisa replied, brushing a hand over the camera like some sort of actress in a TV commercial.
“But you look like a tourist.”
“I do not care. I am photographer, an arteest. Anyhow, it hangs right where I want guys to look.” Lisa thrust out her chest, which had grown from A’s to D’s overnight.
Lucky Joy, surrounded by centerfield potentials, I thought, wondering if Paul Janssen, or any guy for that matter, would want to make out with a senior who still wore training bras. I consider faking sick and going home, until Janice blew a pink bubble that popped in my face.
“Camera, huh? Makes sense. Let’s go.”
A minute later, all four of us were piled inside Russ’s Valiant, headed for the Oil Piers. And our very first kegger!
The music of Van Halen might have blasted up the beach, but I wasn’t rocking out. Nor dancing with a fox so hot his hands were bonfire coals. Passing a joint to a few Hillview High stoners? Nope.
Instead, I stood next to Russ’s car while five pimply freshmen challenged each other to chug-a-lug and spilled half their beer before chasing each other down the beach for a game of tag.
Tag?
I thought this party would be the event of the century; an epic kegger for the books. Long after I’d left my teens behind me, people would be talking about it. Writing songs, even. Future rock stars would get a dreamy look in their eyes as they told of Joy’s Oil Pier Party.
The reality didn’t quite match my vision. Oh sure, Janice’s brother, Keith, got the horse keg. Tapped and ready. We had the plastic cups stacked up in neat rows on a folding table. The music was cranked. Then we waited.
And waited.
Lisa paced back and forth from the near empty dirt parking lot to Russ’s car. “Are we too early?”
I looked at my watch. It said 10:23. “I don’t think so.” I glanced up at the highway, waiting for the stream of headlights to shine down on us like a presidential motorcade. A distant pair grew, and I held my breath.
They passed right by.
“You did tell people tonight, right?” Janice asked. Her voice was accusing.
“Cha! You know we did. You helped make the posters yourself.”
“Maybe someone heard it got busted.” Lisa played with the camera strap on her neck. She’d only taken one picture all night, of Russ and Keith clinking red plastic cups together.
A second later, an already buzzed Russ strolled up, spilling foaming beer onto the sand. He took a long slurp, flicked some foam off his shirt and slung an arm over Janice’s shoulder.
Janice snuggled into it and lifted her chin toward Lisa and me. “Maybe no one showed up because they didn’t want to hang out with you freaks.”
Lisa stepped back and shook her head. “Seriously? You’re going to be a bitch now?”
“Yeah, I bet that’s it.” Janice turned to Russ with a sneer. “Whatya think, babe?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “But this blows. I’m about ready to bail.”
“I know. Let’s take the keg to Mike’s. He’s got a little gathering I heawd about.”
&nbs
p; “What? You guys are going to kidnap our keg?”
“This ain’t exactly rocking, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Janice jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
I shook my head. “No way. I worked too hard.”
“Me too!” Lisa said. “I even friggin’ sold some of my albums to raise money.”
“Then don’t let it go to waste,” Janet argued. “Let’s take the keg to a real party.”
I couldn’t believe it. We’d been planning this for months and now she just wanted to pack it up.
“But it’s our birthday!”
“Stop whining, Joy. And face facts. No one wanted to come, so let’s at least salvage the couple of houws we got.”
What choice did I have? Russ was my ride. Shrugging, I joined Lisa who was already gathering up the cups and putting them back in the bag.
Russ might have cranked the tunes on the ride to Mike’s, but the car seemed as quiet as Sunday morning.
Across the crowded room, Lisa giggled at Mike’s stupid knock-knock jokes. I rolled my eyes. When she threw her laughing head back, it was so obvious she was faking, I was sure Mike would halt half-sentence and give her a pointed stare. But no. Instead, he raised his voice loud enough for aliens in a distant galaxy to hear and told another.
“Knock-knock.”
Lisa smoothed her hair before asking who’s there.
“Voodoo.” Mike raised caterpillar eyebrows. What a Neanderthal.
Now she was full-on gushing. Over Mike? Yuck! “Voodoo who?”
“Voodoo you think you are, asking me so many questions?”
This time when Lisa giggled, Mike slipped an arm around her shoulder. And she let him. No way! Last week, she told me that he looked like a gorilla and now she’s ready to have his children?
Whatever.
I looked around the little house for someone, anyone, to talk to. But Janice was telling tales of New York to a gaggle of populos, Russ was obviously talking surfing as he acted out getting tubed, and Angie was strutting across the room.
I gulped. Angie here? No friggin’ way. She wasn’t a stoner. From what I heard, the hardest stuff she ever did was Boone’s Farm.
Sweat started beading on my forehead. I turned away.
My gaze darted from kitchen to hallway. Why didn’t I bring my brown leather jacket with the fuzzy hood? Then I could hide behind the fur. But, after trying on every pair of jeans, Dittos and cords before finally getting a passable look for skinny ass, I wasn’t about to mess it up with a coat.
A pit as hard as one of Mr. Kaminski’s algebra tests formed in my gut. I had to get out of there fast. Hiding the side of my face with one hand, I rushed across the room.
“Hey, Russ.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “Can you give me a ride home?”
“It’s only 11:30. The party’s just starting.”
I raised pitiful eyebrows at each of his surfer friends, who all shook their heads in turn. Couldn’t ask Mike. It was his house. And all the populos around Janice usually ignored me, unless they were looking for someone to tie to their whipping post.
I needed someone to take me home. Now.
I darted in the kitchen praying Angie hadn’t seen me. Even though I knocked a chair loudly into the Formica table, the entwined couple there didn’t even notice. I shook my head. They were so entangled, you’d think they were honeysuckle vines smothering a tree. Not caring if the last person who drank out of it had mono or some other gross disease, I grabbed a half empty Coors bottle off the table and chugged it down. Slammed it on the counter.
Then she came in, smiling sweetly, as if someone had just given her a compliment on that hair which always seemed so perfect. As soon as she saw me, her expression changed. Her surprised eyes popped, before narrowing into pit viper slits homing in on prey.
Her lip curled when she said, “Look who we have here. Joy Chapel, Hillview High’s dog mascot.”
The entwined couple stopped slobbering all over each other and turned to stare. My face got hot. I began backing away.
“Mike has really lowered his standards.”
The girl sniggered.
“Why don’t you just leave me alone? It’s a party.”
“It was, until you walked in.” She crossed her arms and smiled smugly. “Why the hell you ever leave your house is beyond me.”
The kissy girl, who I now recognized as Kimberly-of-the-homecoming-court, giggled. “I know, she’s trying to gross the rest of us out.”
“What have I ever done to you?” I asked, my throat tighter with every word.
Angie pointed at me as if to say that my mere presence was a bane to her existence.
I blinked, my eyes brimming with tears. Fisted my hands. Don’t you dare let them see you cry. That’ll only fuel their asshole remarks.
Pushing past Kimberly and Mr. Honeysuckle’s vine arms, I dashed out of the kitchen and back into the living room. The music was still cranking, with a few people showing their moves, one dude doing a pretty good imitation of the Robot.
If only I were an android, able to wow kids as my limbs jerked in impossible ways like him. Then, not only would I be admired, but also have a steel heart.
Lisa, who loved dancing, gave me a hopeful look and waved me over. Part of me felt bad as I shook my head, but I couldn’t hold it together much longer. I was already blinking back tears and had maybe five more seconds before I lost it.
Ignoring the stares from my friends, I raced from one end of the room to the other. Where was the fucking exit in this stupid house, anyhow?
When I finally found the front door and jerked it open, I stumbled down the steps, disorientated. With no idea where I was going, I started to run. And run.
Getting the fuck away from there.
The winter stars twinkled above the streetlamps in the midnight sky. Porch lanterns glimmered through the fog. A lone car’s headlamp shone in the distance.
But shadows prevailed. Dusky hands swiped from the gloom. A blackness I’d never escape.
I kept running. Rushing forward in a race against no one. Each breath drew shorter. I started gasping, chest tightening with every stride.
Palm trees swayed overhead, their sharp fronds whispering like necromancers creating curses. Repeatedly, they murmured, “Dog. Freak. Outcast.” Meanwhile, wispy clouds became wraiths assaulting the sky.
Praying that speed would shrivel the words, I tried focusing on my feet. And raced on.
If there truly was a fairy godmother, she’d tell me to close my eyes to erase it all. But when I tried, Angie’s sneering face remained etched on the back of my lids.
I sprinted up one street. Down another.
Then I turned the corner and flew headlong into the street. Saw the headlights. Too late. A horn blared and tires screeched.
The next thing I knew, I was splayed out in someone’s yard, watching a man in a dark Camaro roll down his window.
“Stupid kid! Watch where you’re going!” he shouted, before peeling out.
If I’d had any buzz before that, it sure as shit was gone now. Panting, I hugged my knees as the wet grass soaked into my Dittos. The street was quiet now. Shivers tingled my scalp and pulsed down my spine until I was shaking so much, I thought that big earthquake they always talk about had begun.
I want to go home. Sit on Mom’s lap like I had when I was little, feeling her stroke my hair as she told me things that weren’t true, like sticks and stones will break your bones but names will never hurt you.
Take a deep breath, Joy. Think. You don’t know where you are, but you need to find out. It’s almost curfew.
My legs tightened as a full-on Charlie horse set in. Standing, I limped over to a nearby street sign, grabbed the pole with both hands, and started to stretch out my right calf.
The sign said Malibu Avenue. Where had I heard that before? Racking my brain, I tried to remember street names, but everything was fuzzy and mixed up.
Right or left? Both looked pretty much like dead ends, but I either picke
d one or stayed on this corner shivering all night. Eeeny meeny miny moe.
Left it is.
By the time I finally found my way home it was real late, probably past two. I thought maybe I could sneak in and my parents wouldn’t notice.
Turning the knob as slowly as I could, I slipped inside.
“Where the hell have you been?” Ronny thundered, his eyes red and angry.
“Umm. At Janice’s.”
He grabbed me by the collar and pulled me closer. I could still smell the Seagram’s under the toothpaste on his breath. “Liar. We called. She was with her boyfriend.”
“But I was with them. Really.”
“You were whoring around, little slut.”
“No! I was with Janice and Lisa, I swear.”
Mom stepped into the entryway. “Tell us the truth, Joy. Was it a boy?”
“No.” I sighed. Busted, I might as well tell the truth. “I was a party, okay? Some kids had a party.”
“Whoring around?”
“I don’t do that. I just went to a party.” Then, under my breath, added, “Nobody’d want me anyhow.”
Mom’s face fell. “You lied to us?”
“I thought you’d say no. You guys are so strict.”
“I’ll show you strict, you little slut!” Ronny raised an arm.
“Stop calling me that.”
Grabbing a fistful of t-shirt, he said, “Slutty jeans. Whore top.”
“Asshole!” I jerked away.
“Why, you fucking little—” His fist recoiled off my face.
For the first time, I ignored the pain and fear. Instead, rage filled me. Every punch Mom and I had ever endured. Every black eye and bruise. Every cruel word of derision. Every time I’d cowered behind my door. All turned to paper-flashing flame.
Crawl in a hole and die.
I swung. Fists curled like he’d shown me. Connected with that fucking red face. Arms burning with rage. Imitating the blows he’d inflicted year after year.
Finding Joy Page 14