Riding Standing Up

by Sparrow Spaulding

  Katie heard my screams and came running in to see what was going on. She saw me squirming and I saw the look on her face go from confusion to fierceness. Within a second she had jumped on Doug’s back and started beating him in the head with her tiny, eight-year-old fists. I had never seen the little crybaby act so tough.

  “Get off me!” Doug yelled but Katie kept pounding away. In order to get her off he had to take his hands off me. As he got up I sprinted out of the living room, out the back door and went running for my life to the house behind us. My friend Shelly lived there and I prayed she was home. I pounded on the back door with both fists and she quickly answered.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not. You need to hide me.”

  “Get in here,” she said as she put me in a little broom closet in the kitchen.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s in the salon cutting hair. Don’t worry, she doesn’t know you’re here.”

  Shelly’s mom Betty had a hair salon attached to the house and she was busy cutting someone’s hair. She was nice but I didn’t trust her to protect me since she had dated Larry once and got along great with Doug. I was glad she didn’t know I was there.

  It didn’t take five minutes for Doug to come looking for me. I was still panting in the closet when I heard a knock at the back door. Shelly answered.

  “Is your mom here?” he asked.

  “I’ll go get her,” Shelly said. I could see him through the crack between the door and the frame. He was looking around the house seeing if he could catch a glimpse of me. I wondered if he could hear my heart beating out of my chest.

  “Hi Doug,” Betty said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering if Sparrow was over here playing.”

  “No, I haven’t seen her.” Oh thank God. She doesn’t know I’m here.

  “Huh, I could’ve sworn she came over here.”

  “I’ll keep you posted if I see her,” Betty told him. He stood there for what seemed like forever before he finally turned and left.

  Betty went back to her salon and Shelly made sure he was really gone before she came to get me.

  “What happened?” She was dying to know.

  “He jumped on me and tried to take my shirt off. I can’t stay there.”

  “Oh my God. What are you going to do?” Shelly was a grade below me but she was pretty smart. “Who can you call?”

  “I’m going to call Peg, my mom’s best friend. I think I can go and stay with her.”

  Peg had been Mom’s best friend for several years. I’m not sure how they met but they had a lot in common. Peg was also a chain-smoking coffee-guzzler, though I liked her a lot. She had two boys, Ricky and Travis, and I enjoyed spending time with them. They were like brothers. Ricky was the younger one and also the naughty one who routinely asked me if I wanted to hump. I always laughed it off and never took him seriously. They were both rambunctious but overall good kids. You could tell Peg really loved her boys and even though she was anxious and neurotic she was a good mom.

  My hand was shaking as I dialed the number on the rotary phone.

  “Peg? Hi, it’s Sparrow.” I told her what had happened, how Doug tried to attack me and rip my shirt off and how he was in my bed trying to get me to lie down with him. I tried hard not to cry as I recounted the events to her. I’m still amazed at how I kept my composure.

  I was not prepared for the reaction I got.

  “Sparrow, stop this nonsense. You’re lying. You are just trying to ruin your mother’s big moment. How can you do this? I’m not coming to get you. Go back home!” And with that she hung up on me. I was stunned. How could she think I was making this up? It was so embarrassing to begin with. Like I would humiliate myself just to get back at my mom. I needed a plan B.

  My best friend in the sixth grade was a girl named Jessica O’Toole. I spent a lot of time at her house and knew her mom really well. Maybe she could help me.

  “Hi Jessica, can I talk to your mom?” I was afraid Doug was coming back to look for me so there was no time for small talk.

  “Sure,” she said as she handed off the phone.

  “Mrs. O’Toole, would it be okay if I came and stayed with you for the rest of the week? I’m staying with my step-uncle and I don’t feel safe.” Thank God this woman picked up on what I was saying right away.

  “Is he creepy, honey?”

  “Yes,” I replied, wiping away the tears of fear and shame I could no longer contain. The O’Tooles had a lot of money and I already felt inferior even though they never said or did anything to make me feel that way. Nevertheless, I was feeling like poor, white trash for real now that I had the proverbial molesting uncle on top of everything else.

  I told her where I was and she told me to sit tight until I saw her car pull up in my driveway. She specifically told me she would wait outside until I got there and that she would help me collect my things. I had never felt so protected in all of my life.

  She made it over in record time. Shelly and I were by the back door with our faces pressed up against the glass watching for her car. When it pulled up I hugged Shelly and darted over to my house and Mrs. O.

  “You let me do all the talking,” she said as we approached the back door. She walked right in and Doug was standing there in the kitchen.

  “Hi, I’m Stacey. I’m here to help Sparrow collect her things. She’s going to be staying with me this week.” Doug was speechless and didn’t protest.

  “Oh…uh, okay,” he said as we headed to my room. I packed my things in less than three minutes and we were out of there. We drove in silence for a bit and then Mrs. O. asked me about school. She never brought up the subject of my pervert uncle. She was never a real lovey-dovey, warm woman but she was kind and she saved my ass that day. I admired her firm, direct approach to handling the situation and decided I wanted to be like her. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful, dressed like a million bucks and could paint her nails while driving.

  When Mom got home from her wedding/honeymoon she briefly asked me what happened with Doug. I told her everything. She listened, then thought for a moment while using her pinky nail to pick her nose. When mom needed to focus she often picked her nose. She only used her pinky and since her nails were long she didn’t have to put it in very far. She would stick it up there then slowly drag her nail down her nostril. It reminded me of digging for gold and grossed me out because Mikey was also a nose picker and would wipe boogers on all the furniture, the carpet, and especially all over the doors in the Rust Puppy. I loathed boogers.

  After what seemed like days Mom finally spoke.

  “I think we need to keep this incident quiet, Sparrow.” I just got married and I don’t want anything to jeopardize that, so let’s keep this between you and me.” I should not have been surprised but I was. I really wanted Mom to stand up for me and protect me like I tried to do for her. I wanted her to scream at Doug and ban him from our house. I wanted her to say “How dare you!” to that pig. But none of that happened, at least not then. I agreed not to discuss it, which let’s face it, I wouldn’t have done anyway out of pure shame. I felt dirty and disgusting, even though I got away from him. Some old man wanted me and it felt like I had contracted the plague.

  With the exception of what happened with Doug my sixth grade year was exactly what I needed to build some confidence and come out of my shell. I was still shy, unsure of myself and felt inferior at times, but I wasn’t hiding in bushes and I was able to make friends. I broke up with Conrad because some of the other boys wanted to go out with me but I quickly realized none of them were as kind and sweet as Conrad. I tried to apologize and get him back but he was hurt and not interested. For some reason I thought he’d wait for me as I made the rounds with all of his friends. I wished I could go back and undo the breakup but it was too late. He had already lost that spark for me.

  I still finished the sixth
grade strong. All As and one B. I was disappointed as I had tried so hard to get straight As. But I was happy, nonetheless. I remember the last day of school. We were all outside playing and my friend Karen and I were making a dance routine to Deniece Williams’s “Let’s Hear It For the Boy.” I felt cool in my Pepto Bismol-pink sweater dress, Mom’s black suede boots, and my white lace Madonna glove which I always wore on my left hand because I’m left-handed and proud of it.

  Chapter 11

  I had no idea what to expect for my seventh grade year but I had heard junior high was really fun. I was a nervous because it was a bigger school and I had gotten comfortable being a big fish in a small pond. Mom and Larry said there was no way they were taking four kids school shopping so they went out one day and picked out all our clothes. I was horrified when Mom came home with lime-green pants for me and shirts with horizontal stripes. These were baby clothes. Couldn’t she see I wasn’t a baby? I couldn’t raid her closet anymore because she was pregnant, getting ready to pop and plus she had been steadily putting on weight since we’d moved in with Larry so there wasn’t anything that fit me.

  Mom said it was mandatory that I have a seventh-grade physical so she made the appointment with our pediatrician, Dr. Wexler. I didn’t think much of it, having been to the doctor on several occasions, mostly for strep. I despised having to say “Ah” and open my mouth while the nurse stuck the tongue depressor that looked like a giant popsicle stick halfway down my throat. I was always afraid I would blow chunks on the nurse. Luckily, I never did.

  The morning of the appointment I panicked because I couldn’t find any clean underwear. Mom wasn’t great at washing clothes and when she did wash them she dried them and dumped them on the folding table in the laundry room. This wouldn’t have been the end of the world except we often had ten or more loads of laundry piled high on that table, to the point where it was impossible to find anything. Usually someone had already tried to find a pair of socks so the clothes would be strewn everywhere including on the floor, which often meant they were full of dust, dog hair, and big, black wood spiders. Routinely I was assigned the chore of folding clothes only to lift up a shirt and have a giant, hairy spider jump out, scare me to bits, and go scurrying back into the pile. After several of those occurrences I did my best to avoid folding clothes and since no one else wanted to do it the laundry room morphed into an atomic wasteland.

  “Go look downstairs,” Mom said when I told her I was out of underwear. I figured that if I scanned the pile long enough I could grab a pair of underwear real quick and avoid a spider. No luck. I moved some clothes around on the floor with my foot. Still no luck.

  “Hurry up we have to go!” Mom yelled. I noticed a pair of my brother’s underwear sticking out of the pile. Underoos. Oh God, do I dare? They weren’t bright blue like the Superman ones. Instead, they were light brown. He-man, most likely.

  I had never worn my brother’s underwear but I had to say they were comfy when I put them on— a little snug, but doable. I think I can get away with this, I thought. I threw on the rest of my clothes and off we went.

  When we got to the office I had a seat while Mom checked me in. Dr. Wexler came out and ushered me into the office. When I turned around he had closed the door and it was just the two of us.

  “Where’s my mom?” I asked, feeling uneasy.

  “She wanted to wait in the lobby. Now go ahead and get undressed.” He stood there staring at me. My heart was pounding and I felt a little lightheaded. What? Why do I have to get undressed? Where’s the tongue depressor?

  “Why do I have to get undressed?”

  “So I can give you a proper physical and check you for scoliosis,” Dr. Wexler said, irritated.

  Feeling exposed, I did as I was told. When I had my white turtleneck with the pastel hearts halfway over my head I remembered a horrifying fact: I was wearing boys’ Underoos. Of all the days to wear Mikey’s underwear. I stripped down to the Underoos and stood there next to my pile of clothes on the floor. Feeling completely humiliated, I tried to explain.

  “I had to wear my brother’s underwear today because I ran out of mine.” The doctor stood there and stared at me rather wild-eyed.

  He must think I’m a total freak.

  “Take your underwear off,” he said. Then get on the table.”

  I froze at first but did as I was told. I got onto the table and lay on my back. Dr. Wexler had an odd look on his face that reminded me of Charles Manson. I had read parts of Mom’s paperback copy of Helter Skelter which had several pictures of Manson and I recalled those wide, wild eyes. Dr. Wexler looked like he should have had a swastika on his forehead like Mr. Manson.

  When he first came to the table he gave me a breast exam, which I thought was bizarre because I had no breasts or breast buds. I had nothing except two little nipples that my brother called blueberries when he could see them through my shirt because I wasn’t wearing bras yet. I lay there and let him do his thing, first with one breast, then the other. He was laser focused like he was trying to disarm an explosive and the whole world depended on his expertise. He still had that wild look and I caught a whiff of old man, which was a scent I was familiar with from my days of spending time with Morris.

  After a while he moved his way down to my vagina; my pre-pubescent, bare, vagina that had not one single hair on it because I was a little girl. I was eleven, young for starting seventh grade. Even though I was smart and advanced intellectually, I was still just a little girl. Dr. Wexler was highly interested in little girls’ bits because he spent quite a few minutes checking the ins and outs of my vagina, spreading my labia and touching what I now know is my clitoris (though back then I still thought it was my mini-penis). He studied it like it was the Hope Diamond or some rare fossil. I felt the blood run out of it—her. Scared, I lay there and intentionally tried to leave my body. It worked a little though I felt my face get hot again as I stared at the ceiling and contemplated how much my life sucked.

  “Turn over.”

  I did as I was told, thinking he was probably done violating my vagina. As soon as I was on my stomach he reached over and spread my butt cheeks apart, using both hands.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. I felt too violated to remain silent any longer.

  “I’m checking to see if you wipe yourself properly.”

  For some reason this made me angry. I do everything correctly; I know how to wipe my butt. He gave my butt hole the same royal treatment, though I think it was slightly less exciting for him because he didn’t spend as much time there and I guess there wasn’t as much to see.

  When he was satisfied that my butt hole was clean enough Dr. Wexler told me to get off the table and stand touching my toes. He seemed kind of in a rush at this point and spent a whole five seconds on my spine.

  “Put your clothes back on,” he said.

  I dressed quickly, feeling like I could pretend all this had never happened once I had clothes on. I never thought I’d be so happy to put on those Underoos but I was. Thrilled was more like it.

  “Mom, why didn’t you come in?” I asked when we got to the parking lot.

  “Dr. Wexler told me to stay in the waiting room,” she said.

  “He told me you didn’t want to come in. Mom, he made me get naked and he looked up inside me!”

  “Oh, really? Maybe that’s how they do physicals now. You’re getting older and these are things you will have to go through,” Mom said as she dug around in her disorganized purse looking for a lighter. Six months pregnant and she was still smoking.

  “Mom, I’m eleven! He gave me a breast exam and I have no boobs!”

  “I think you’re overreacting, Sparrow. He’s your pediatrician for Chrissake.” With that she lit a cigarette and got in the car.

  I got in the front passenger seat and held her purse like I often did. Mom’s purses were always messy. Instead of cleaning them when they were filled with papers and junk she threw them in her closet and bought a new one. Whenever I
needed money for candy I would sneak down into Mom’s room and rifle through her bags for change. More than once I found a twenty dollar bill and never told a soul.

  Junior high was nothing like I expected. There were so many kids compared with my sixth grade class and they seemed more mature. It didn’t take long before I fell back into my old self—quiet, shy and insignificant. I was able to make friends, but I was the wallflower of the clique and too insecure to say much. I felt like all of the girls were better, prettier, and more confident than I was. The boys I had gone to school with the year before were now interested in the new girls and couldn’t care less about me. I was that like that pack of stale saltine crackers at the bottom of Mom’s purse that you eat only when you are desperately hungry or sick from the flu. I was irrelevant.

  The school work in junior high was more rigorous. I wasn’t crazy about any of my teachers but one stands out as possibly the unhappiest person I had ever met—my homeroom teacher, Lila Carpenter. I never saw that woman smile once the entire time I was in her class. She had dark brown hair styled in a pixie cut and pointy ears that made her look like an elf, albeit a mean one. She hated all children but she had a special loathing for my classmate, Dexter Whitefield. He was in my homeroom class and had some sort of ADD mixed with an impish spirit. That kid lived to torture Mrs. Carpenter, which actually made homeroom somewhat bearable. The only days Dexter didn’t get sent to the principal’s office were the days he was absent. He loved to make Mrs. Carpenter’s face turn red with fury and every day he came up with a clever new way to do so. The class laughed hysterically at his antics.

  Even though Dexter reminded me of my brother, I liked him because it was fun to see someone else get tortured for a change. He was never mean to me like some other boys who called me “No-tacious Tatas” because of my flat chest. One of those boys was Justin Shaw, the boy who had called me gorilla arms all through the fifth grade. He had moved away only to come back in seventh grade and sit right in front of me in homeroom. I’ll bet he didn’t even remember me and the whole gorilla arms shtick. Now he and Brad Wilson cracked each other up making fun of my flat chest. I had not yet discovered padded bras.