The Muse

by Carr, Suzie

  “Were you happy after that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What kept you going?”

  “Every night, I’d lie in my bed rubbing a rock I found in my father’s garden and would dream of the life I eventually wanted to live. This kept me going.”

  “Are you living that life?”

  I reflected on his question, careful not to burst the bubble I so carefully inflated for his sake. “Partially.”

  “The day before I almost blew my head off with a gun, I had been released from Howard County General Hospital. I still had deep purple bruises over my entire body, including my face. My eye was just about opening up again at that point. The doctors had told my parents when I first arrived in the ambulance that I might suffer brain damage. Apparently the kicks to my head were so severe the damage could’ve affected my speech and possibly even my higher level brain function. I improved. My cousin, Jacques, hasn’t. He’s still in a coma. They just transferred him to a hospital closer to his hometown about two hundred miles from here. He was visiting for a family reunion and came with me when the group attacked. I caused this, even though the therapist tells me I didn’t mean for this to happen, so therefore I am vindicated from carrying the burden with me for the rest of my life.”

  The air closed in around me. My chest ached. The pain etched on his face tore at me, ripped me open and exposed a pain so raw, so buried, I cried out in a wince. He comforted me with a gentle smile. “I’m okay. I am.”

  “Why would you blame yourself for something others did?” Even as I asked this I understood the culpability of the ego and its evil manner of absorbing all shockwaves and suffering through the concussions of ill fate brought on by no means of our own. Yet, people like me and Travis soaked it up and took it on anyway, blaming ourselves for things completely outside of our control and hiding from the things that were within our control.

  “I take full blame. I dragged him to a place I never should’ve ventured. I needed a ride. I knew he wouldn’t judge. So, I asked him to take me to meet someone. We planned that he would wait in the car while I met him by the lakeside. But when he saw four of them jump on top of me and start beating me, he jumped in to rescue. Someone set me up. Apparently, according to the police, this kind of thing is happening more.”

  “So you never met the person you were going to meet?”

  “I answered an ad that seemed to talk straight to me. The person sought a black male who enjoyed English literature and Mozart. They targeted me.”

  “Do you know who did this?”

  “I have my suspicions and offered them to the police. No evidence though.” He slurped his smoothie.

  “You can’t carry this guilt with you.”

  “I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

  And, I didn’t know what to tell him. I could only shrug and swallow the sadness along with the tapioca.

  # #

  I went home and messaged with Eva about Travis. I spoke about his pain, about his guilt, about his desire to want to help others facing similar circumstances. Eva latched onto this, counseling me through my sadness for him, helping me to sort through something that ran deeper than our flirts and this silly CarefreeJanie game I played with her.

  “He’ll come out ahead,” she wrote. “Bullied kids who survive attacks are the strongest.”

  She opened the window. I could fly right through it with my truth. Swoop in and be rescued by her beautiful embrace, her soft smile, her generous care. But I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her love. “I didn’t know what to say to him. He asked me how to get rid of the guilt. I just shrugged and sipped on my smoothie.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t beat yourself up over that. How would you know how to deal with this kind of pressure?”

  The air circulated in the window of opportunity, welcoming me to fly through and unleash my troubles. I could spill my sorry story at last, allow her to get to know the real me, the weak me, the vulnerable me, the me who couldn’t stand up for herself and allowed others to kick her and pelt her and destroy her.

  Fuck no. I wanted her to see me as strong, vibrant, a pillar of gentility and character. “He’s such a sweet soul and wants to do something positive.”

  “He should take all of that negative energy and do something positive with it, something purposeful.”

  “Like what?”

  “Imagine the power he would gain if he could do something to save others and bring awareness?”

  “That would be incredible.”

  “My heart is soaring right now. I’ve got a flood of ideas swimming around my mind. I see it all being played out in front of me.”

  “Share please,” I wrote. My heart pumped new life.

  “Let’s do a short film. You write it. I act in it along with some of my actor friends. I’ll produce it, edit it, add the background and dubbing and then we can have Travis showcase it.”

  My heart beat wildly. “So, a documentary-type thing?”

  “It needs to be heartfelt. It needs to tug. It needs to expose raw feelings. It needs to anger people and will them to take a stand against bullying.”

  Ideas swam in my mind. I saw bullies, victims, and champions. I saw defeat and mercy. I saw bittersweet trials and victorious wins. I saw reality meshing with drama and forming a memorable scene that would have parents talking to their kids and teachers protecting their students. The film would produce one voice, one stand, one community working together to bring awareness and peace to those who might otherwise travel down the lonely despairing road of tragedy and fear. “Where will he showcase it?”

  “We could orchestrate a regional or even national anti-bullying conference and have him present this short film along with his story to countless people who will then circulate beyond our wildest dreams.”

  I’d have to meet her. I couldn’t turn back. I couldn’t act on my selfishness any longer, not with something as important as this resting in the balance. This was about a boy named Travis and hundreds of thousands of other kids just like him. “Your enthusiasm is coming through my computer screen.”

  “We have to do this,” she wrote.

  “We will.”

  “Go get writing honey.”

  My heart zoomed out of control.

  # #

  My fingers couldn’t keep up with my mind. The story unrolled ahead of me, unfurling in a straight line with no wrinkles, no bumps, just plush and fantastical as could be. The grandest audience could bear witness and never imagine for one moment that an ordinary girl with a wall decorated in rejection letters could tell such a perfect story. The ideas popped into my mind and flowed. I only had to picture Eva reading it with her eyes wide open, a smile hinged on her face, a crisp nod of approval at the brilliance of the words to open the spigot and release everything my heart and soul had been gripping to for the past decade and a half of my life. Everything I ever wanted to say to those fools who bullied me, everything Travis wanted to say to those idiots who placed a gun in his mouth and almost forced him to pull a trigger, everything every bully in every school across the world ever said to a scared child, released into this story that bore witness to the unnerving problem this country faced because of scared, spineless bullies. These words needed to spike their way into the bloodstream of every person and cause them to jump to their feet and stare straight into the eyes of the residual ferocity of insults, rock pelting, kicking, beating, and vicious attack on the countless mental states of innocent people just trying to stand on their feet and create a life worth living. We needed to give victims a voice, a chance at a normalcy, the opportunity to bring out the best in themselves and others and to leave a legacy of friendship, truth, justice, and love behind.

  My main character took me on a journey, weaving me into his brain and allowing me to see through his eyes. He taught me in those four hours it took me to write the short story that being strong required standing up for what he believed in and not for stomping out what he didn’t. Heroes came in many shapes and forms
, but the underlying string of serving others in time of need tied them all together. His name would be Sean and he would rise to the occasion despite risking his reputation, his beautiful face, his place in the world of Hope High School. Sean would befriend the victim, would share a lunch table with him, would offer him a safe walk to class, would help him find his value so he could showcase it and earn the support of many. Before long, using the tactic of ignore and avoid by means of shifting focus to other more positive actions, the victim becomes the next hero who would be willing to help defend the honor of those who came after him and needed a gentle nudge towards their greatness. A movement would start—a heroes’ movement, and every good soul would want to take part. By taking someone under his wing who needed it, standing up for those in need and offering help, lending his guidance, confidence, and strong support, he forged a lasting impact in someone's life.

  I spent another two hours refining the story before going to bed. When I rose three hours later, I read it again with fresher eyes. My heart soared. The sense of empowerment tickled my core. I couldn’t wait to share it with Eva.

  When I did, she responded with a forest of exclamation points. “You outdid yourself.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I can’t wait to work on this. We need to meet up and discuss. What is your mailing address, by the way?”

  I soldiered past this question. “I’ll get it to you. Hey, have I told you lately how much I adore you?”

  “I adore you more.”

  Several weeks later, she showed me how much she adored me when she sent me a link to a YouTube video. I sat in my cubicle and bawled. She played the school principal who rose to the occasion and helped turn bullies and victims into young men and women who walked with purpose and conducted themselves with respect by standing up and honoring their unique talents and abilities, by serving each other, by bringing out the best in each other so they could bring out the best in themselves. Doreen, my confidant, cried along with me. I had told her everything, about my alter ego and about my growing love for Eva. We dabbed at our eyes and sniffled as we watched the rolling credits, including my pen name Janie. Eva captured my story and brought it to three-dimensional life in a twenty-eight minute short film.

  Eva got started right away on planning the anti-bullying event. She would hold it in Washington D.C. and open it up to five hundred guests. The proceeds of the twenty dollar ticket would go to fund a new Heroes Program, and this program would start at Travis’s school, with Travis leading the group.

  I adored this girl.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I continued to write short, romantic stories for Eva, and these stories pulled us closer together. “I’ve never met you, yet I can’t imagine life without you,” she wrote one day. “I feel so connected.”

  I understood the reason had more to do with her connecting to my words than me.

  Our flirts intensified by the day. I pushed up the danger level. I couldn’t help myself. I’d say things like, “Imagine the sweetness in our first kiss?”

  “You’ll stop my heart. I know you will,” she’d say back.

  “You know what I'd love to do?” I toyed. “I’d love to run my fingers through your hair. I can just imagine how soft it would feel.”

  “Ah. I would love the touch of your fingers.”

  “I’d love to touch them to your lips,” I dared braver.

  “I’d love to kiss them,” she said.

  “Oh I would love the feel of your lips on my fingers.”

  “Come hang out with me under this bright blue sky. We'll snuggle up under a tree and take a nap together. Mmm, how nice would that be?” she asked.

  “I’d love to kiss you.”

  “I want to kiss you for real,” she wrote. “When are we going to meet?”

  I stood out on the ledge and wavered, then wrote, “Tell me what you'd do to me if I were really right there in front of you. Come on, make me tingle (wink).”

  “I would take you in my arms and hug you, then kiss you softly. I might even nibble on your lips before I play with your tongue.” She continued. “Then, I’d kiss your neck and slowly travel down to explore more of you.”

  Oh this girl knew how to make me tingle. “Go on.”

  “I’d travel all around you, discovering your sweetness and caress you very tightly at that moment when I send you over the edge of ecstasy.”

  I sat in my cubicle drenched. “I wouldn't even know what word to type to express what your tease just did to me.”

  “I need to meet you.”

  “I know, babe.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “That’s not good enough. I need a date.”

  Could I do this? I could prep for this. I could arrange a hair and makeup session, clothes shopping, a manicure and pedicure. I could workout endlessly until she arrived. I could mentally and emotionally prepare to reveal myself. It had to happen eventually. I had played this CarefreeJanie game too well. “When are you coming to town again?”

  “I’ll be there in another two weeks.”

  My heart skyrocketed.

  # #

  Travis and I met up for regular talks. I confessed my love for Eva during one of them. I told him about my fears of revealing my true self to her. With the maturity of a fifty-year-old man, he counseled me, advising that I needed to have faith in myself and to love myself and all the faults and scars that came along with being me, Jane.

  He understood my fear. I trusted him.

  “When you’re ready, you’ll know,” he said on more than one occasion.

  Well, the time had arrived, ready or not.

  I prepped for Eva’s visit with excruciating detail, determined to come out to her as the real deal.

  Larry set me up with an appointment with his stylist, a transgendered girl named Eloise who stunned all in her stiletto heels and fitted summer dress. Her impeccable makeup mystified me with its perfect lines. She smelled like a field of wildflowers. She sat me in her chair, examined me, and set out on what I could only guess would be the hardest job of her life. She slathered color goop on my roots and weaved colored foils throughout. As I sat with this goop on my hair, she asked her assistant to manicure my nails and paint them red. When it came time to rinse my hair, her assistant massaged my head with shampoo that smelled of mint and tingled like menthol. When I finally landed back in Eloise’s chair, she wore a sneaky grin. “I can’t wait to shape your hair. You do own a Chi iron, I hope?”

  I just shrugged and sat like a helpless fool. She assured me she’d set me up with all the right stuff and then started chopping, texturizing, slicing into my hair like an artist chiseling. Thirty minutes later, smelling like I just escaped from a perfume factory, I bounced out of the hair studio looking like a superstar. Eva would arrive later in the week and I prayed I could replicate the look.

  When Larry picked me up at the salon, his jaw dropped. “Hello, CarefreeJanie!”

  “Do you think it’s too much? Maybe I should’ve had her do fewer highlights?”

  “Darling, you could show up with gray roots at this point and I think she’ll still want to toss you up against a wall and take you on a ride.”

  “My tummy just rolled.” I swallowed the knot in my throat.

  # #

  Larry dropped me back at the office. He pulled up to the building and wished me well. I climbed out of the car, straightened my skirt and then looked up when I heard a motorcycle zoom down the row. “Oh my God, it’s her.” I jumped back in the car.

  She slowed down and parked her bright blue motorcycle in the front spot near Sanjeev’s BMW. She looked every bit like the star in a sexy action flick. My heart pounded. My face flushed. “She’s a week too early.”

  “You can do this,” he said.

  I looked to my friend and to his stoic eyes that warned of the dire actions he’d take if I screwed up this moment. “No. No I can’t.”

  From Larry’s front seat I stared at her. Her
hair flowed out from underneath her helmet. Her long, sleek legs, adorned in a pair of black dress pants, dangled like beautiful vines, free and stretching. She removed her helmet and tossed her hair around, easing it free with her fingers. She stood tall and dismounted, looked around with a smile on her face.

  “She’s gorgeous,” he said.

  I searched my brain for CarefreeJanie. I needed her confidence, her wit, her intellect now more than ever. “What will she ever see in me?”

  “Darling” he said. “You’ve been virtually sexting each other for long enough. Stop acting like this is some sort of arranged marriage meeting. If you don’t like her, you walk away.”

  “If I don’t like her?”

  “Just get out of the car.”

  My skin itched. She walked towards the building, light and bouncy as if a soft jazz ensemble gathered in her head. A flirty gaze rested peacefully on her face. “I’m not ready for this.”

  “Get out of the car and stop acting like a fool with a goofy crush.”

  My legs trembled. My fingers fidgeted with the car door lock. “But I am.”

  He pushed me. “Seriously, out.”

  I fell out of the car and onto my wobbly feet as my best friend shoved me into the wild with little more than my new highlights and a burning desire to bolt to the tree line. As I managed an unstable smile, my cynical brain said things to me like ‘stupid move to bait her about Old Bay seasoning’ and ‘you never should’ve mounted that bike’ and ‘you couldn’t have called yourself PlainJ instead?’

  I treaded water too deep to swim in, too rough to be brave, too awe-inspiring to call natural.

  She trekked forward, her smile growing, her hips swaying, her hair flapping around her like a model posing in front of a fan. What if she took one look at me and regretted the months of flirting? Would I know? Would she be too polite to be honest and just go along with me anyway for the sake of being a good cyber lover?

  I checked my skirt; checked my lipstick; ensured my smooth hair; and then cleared my throat.