Less Invisible

by Emma Rose

  As I was walking toward the door I turned around when I was halfway there and without thinking said, "Ms. Katie?"

  "Yes, Jemma," Ms. Katie answered looking up hopefully from her guitar.

  "I-I just wanted to say thank-you. Thank you for being so nice to me. That's all," I blushed.

  Ms. Katie's cheeks became rosy and I could tell her eyes were starting to get watery from across the room. "Aww, baby, thank-you! You are the sweetest little girl I have ever met. Don't lose that. I don't know how anybody could be unkind toward you," Ms. Katie gushed.

  I didn't know what else to say, so I just smiled, said goodbye, and walked out of the room.

  Oliver was outside the door waiting for me. I wasn't sure how he knew I was going to be there, but I was just glad to see him.

  "Hey, Jemma," he said with a big, old grin. "I was looking all over for you, but I figured you might be here." It was as if Oliver had completely forgotten I had been rude to him just hours ago.

  "Oh, yeah. I just had to talk to Ms. Katie," I explained as we walked past Jade toward the exit.

  "Nice work, loser," Jade muttered under her breath as soon as we were a few feet away, but not out of earshot.

  Immediately, Oliver looked back and glared at the girl. "What did you just say?" he asked like a stern father who was determined to put his rebellious kid in place.

  Apparently, Jade was surprised by his boldness. Her eyes grew wide and she looked Oliver over like she was sizing him up, trying to figure out who would win in a fight.

  "I didn't say anything," she exclaimed, acting completely coy and offended that Oliver had accused her of doing something wrong even though she obviously had.

  Oliver didn't like her response. I watched with anticipation as he walked over to the older girl and whispered in her face, "Don't ever call my friend a loser. Got it?"

  Jade didn't know what to make of Oliver, so she just stood there and nodded her head. I was surprised that Oliver was getting through to her. I'm not sure how a boy who was still only 5'3", 110 pounds could be so intimidating to a girl of the same size, but I was glad to have Oliver fighting for me. It made me feel good to see my enemy getting told off by my best friend.

  Oliver didn't say anything else. She was dead to him now.

  Oliver started walking home while I followed.

  After a few minutes of walking in silence, Oliver spoke up. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "What are you sorry for? You just stood up for me." I asked confused.

  "I'm sorry that kids are mean to you. It's not right," Oliver said looking down at the sidewalk; he talked about it like it was the weather and not something extremely personable. I guess he didn't know how else to approach the subject.

  I felt a little embarrassed. Kids were mean to me. It was a fact, but I didn't like hearing it said out loud even if it was by my well-intentioned best friend. When you say things out loud, they either become not so real anymore or they become so real you can't deny them any longer. In this case, it was the latter.

  "It's okay," I said for lack of anything better to say.

  "No, it's not okay, Jemma," Oliver countered, "People should be kind to you, not cruel, but you know what?"

  "What?" I asked, interested in what he could possibly say to make this conversation less awkward and traumatic.

  "I'm never going to be one of those people. That you can bank on," Oliver promised.

  My heart fluttered. Oliver's words gave me such a high, I thought I might just take off and start flying. In a moment of pure instinct and not of rational thinking, I stood on my tiptoes and reached my neck up to give Oliver a quick peck on the cheek. As soon as it was over, I couldn't believe I had done it. Part of me regretted it instantly. What if Oliver thought it was completely horrible and it ruined our friendship? Another part of me thought it was the bravest and most authentic thing I had ever done.

  I watched Oliver's face apprehensively to see what he thought of the kiss. At first, all I saw were rosy, red cheeks, and wide eyes, but soon enough a confident smile appeared. I had surprised Oliver, but he must have thought it was a good surprise.

  We didn't talk the rest of the way to Oliver's home, but that was okay. We had both just experienced something new and we needed some time to process it. We were also much too awkward to think of anything to say that could follow an event like that.

  But just as we were climbing the stairs up to Oliver's apartment on the seventh floor, he reached over and held my hand. Everything in my life felt good again. That was the second time I thanked God for Oliver.

  CHAPTER THREE: JEMMA

  Oliver's family moved to New York City when he was only five years old right before we met in kindergarten. He lived with his dad and older brother, Will, in a one-bedroom apartment downtown. It was cheap and outdated. The carpet had many questionable stains and there were tears on the couch. They didn't have much, but to me, their little place was a luxurious palace.

  Oliver and his family were always very kind to me. They had me eat dinner with them a few nights a week and let me use their shower if I hadn't had the chance to wash up for a few days.

  When Oliver, Will, and I were all in elementary school we'd even have 'family' game nights together. The four of us would spend hours playing chutes and ladders, Sorry, and Trouble around their coffee table.

  Those were the happiest times of my childhood.

  During the first few years that I knew Oliver, Mr. Connors would let Oliver invite me to spend the night. As were Momma's rules, I always had to decline. Not because she didn't trust the Connors, but because she didn't want them to know we were homeless. She didn't want anybody to know we were homeless. Although looking back, I'm sure Mr. Connors knew the whole time even if his sons were oblivious.

  Every day before I went to school or to Oliver's apartment, Momma would tell me, "Remember you got a nice house. Don't tell anybody you're living on the streets, okay?"

  "Okay, Momma," I would sigh and roll my eyes tired of hearing the same thing.

  Then, she would always glance at me with a sad look in her eyes, kiss me on top of my head, and send me on my way.

  I kept my promise to Momma for a long time, but one day in seventh grade I let it slip.

  Oliver and I were eating lunch together in 'our' corner of the cafeteria. The corner where nobody would bother us next to the girls' bathroom and behind the trash cans.

  Oliver had just turned twelve and he was changing. He wasn't the sweet boy who would come to my rescue whenever I needed it anymore. Over the summer, he started hanging out more with his older brother, Will, and his friends instead of with me. He no longer spoke in his Irish accent and was intentional about using American lingo. When girls would talk to him, he'd get all loud and goofy. I couldn't understand it; it wasn't like him. I could sense that he was starting to drift away from me. It was the worst feeling in the world.

  "Ollie," I said, trying to redirect his attention to me and off the cheerleaders across the room.

  "Jemma, how many times do I have to tell you to please stop calling me Ollie in school? It's Oliver- nothing else," he declared.

  I rolled my eyes. I loved Oliver, nothing would change that, but I was starting to really hate his attitude.

  "Fine. Sorry, Oliver. I just wanted to ask you a question."

  "Thank you. Now, what is it, Jemma?"

  "Well, you know how there's a dance on Friday night, right?" I asked shyly, staring down at my chocolate milk carton.

  "Mhmm," Oliver hummed while continuing to eat his chicken nuggets.

  "Uh, well..." I mumbled nervously.

  "Jemma, come on, what is it?" Oliver inquired.

  "It's just that I was wondering if you would want to go with me," I blurted out quickly without lifting my eyes from my tray.

  Oliver and I were close. We practically knew everything about each other, but this was new territory. Oliver picked at his food the same way he picked at his Spider-Man sneakers six years before.

  Ol
iver sighed and looked up at me with his sparkling, ice-blue eyes. He had long eyelashes and dark pink lips, which made him the envy of the entire class.

  "I don't think so Jemma," he shook his head.

  My heart sank deep into my stomach and my face burned with embarrassment.

  "Oh," I said confused, "but... but why not? Just as friends, Ollie. It could be fun."

  "Because Jemma... Because guys like me are supposed to go with pretty girls like, like Madeline and Rebecca. That's just the way it is. That's what's expected of me now that I'm on the basketball team. You understand, right? I mean, what would you wear anyways? Do you even own a dress?"

  Oliver's words hurt like a dagger in my heart. I grew hot from embarrassment and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. How could Oliver say these things to me? We were best friends. After I kissed him on the way home from school the year before, we stayed in our lanes and didn't do anything normal friends wouldn't do. Our one day streak of puppy-love was short-lived and we quickly returned to being more like brother and sister, but I still wasn't expecting this from Oliver.

  "Jerk," I whispered.

  "Oh come on, Jemma. Don't be such a baby about this... we can still be friends."

  "No, Oliver, no we can't. You have no idea what my life is like and you're the most, the most superficial, insensitive boy I've ever met," I frowned crossing my arms.

  "Please, Jemma. Don't act like your life is so hard. Did you have to watch your mother die from cancer? I didn't think so."

  "Screw you! I'm homeless, Oliver, I'm homeless," I whisper-screamed so no one else could hear, "School is a relief for me. Here there is no uncertainty, but after I leave school my life is one big question mark. I never know where I am going to sleep at night or what, if anything, I'm going to eat. Sometimes my mom and I spend a few weeks sleeping on the floor of a friend's living room. Sometimes on a park bench, but mostly we bounce between a few different women's shelters. Do you know what that's like Oliver? I didn't think so, you've always had a roof over your head."

  Oliver just stared at me dumbstruck. His eyes looked sorry, but I didn't care. He had hurt me and there was no way I was going to get over it anytime soon.

  "Jemma... I'm sorry. I didn't, I mean- you never told..." Oliver stuttered.

  "Forget about it Oliver," I said standing up and grabbing my lunch tray. Quickly, I threw out the rest of my lunch and made a beeline to the bathroom, so I could cry in peace without the judgment of the rest of the seventh grade.

  That's when I decided I didn't want to go to school anymore, so I dropped out. I just stopped going and nobody really cared. Momma was starting to lose it, so she was okay with it. In fact, she seemed glad to have someone to spend the days with her.

  The first day I skipped school was on a Wednesday. I felt guilty about not going, but my Momma assured me that it was completely normal for kids my age to drop out. I knew that it wasn't, but I also knew I wasn't any normal kid.

  We woke up in the shelter at the normal time and went to the mission to eat breakfast. I was tired and sad. I didn't really know how Momma spent her days so I didn't know what the day was going to hold. I had always been sent to school every day even when I was sick and on weekends or summer vacation, I hung out with Oliver all day. Momma never talked much to me about what she did when I wasn't around. She typically avoided my questions. I guess you could say I was feeling a little uneasy about finally experiencing what daily life was like for my mother.

  "So," I said as we left the mission, "What are we going to do today?"

  "Well," Momma said, swinging our garbage bag of belongings over her shoulder. "I guess the subway is a good place to start."

  I wasn't used to hanging out in the subway. Momma and I pretty much walked everywhere we needed to go, so I didn't have any purpose for going down to the station, but I knew plenty of kids who rode it regularly. I was curious to find out what it was like.

  During the first twelve years of my life, I had seen plenty of scary things, but as we went down into the subway, it still made me feel a little uncomfortable. It was crowded, noisy, and smelled a bit too much like B.O. The lack of natural sunlight was unsettling. I followed my mother silently until we found an empty area in front of the train to sit down.

  Momma sighed as she slouched down onto the cold, hard ground. "I'm too tired to sing right now," she explained as she pulled out a cardboard pizza box with the words 'single mother escaped domestic violence anything helps' scribbled on in black sharpie marker.

  I didn't know why my mother was a single parent or why she didn't talk to her family any more, but suddenly everything made a lot more sense. My heart broke with sympathy for my mother and I saw her in a whole new light. I had always respected her as a hard-working, loving person, but now I felt truly sorry for her. I couldn't understand who would ever want to hurt her. I wondered if it was my father or another family member who had mistreated my mother or possibly both. I didn't know who it was who hurt her, but in my heart I hated them. I became hot with anger, I needed to know who it was, who could do something so terrible to my mother, but I knew it would be rude to ask.

  Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me, "Momma?" I asked, looking up at her face like I was seeing her for the first time.

  "Yeah baby," Momma answered, wrapping her arm around my shoulder.

  "I want to know about your family," I said in a more or less demanding way.

  Momma looked at me with surprise as if she knew the day was going to come when she was going to have to tell me her history but didn't expect it to come this early. I thought her surprised reaction was ridiculous. How long did she expect me to be content with not knowing anything about my family?

  Momma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She looked as if she were in pain sitting there on the sidewalk as memories rushed into her mind. She winced and cringed and held her stomach tightly with her hands. It hurt me to see her like that. I didn't know what to make of it and I didn't know how to help her.

  After a long pause, Momma exhaled out slowly and opened her eyes. "I guess, it's time I told you, but I'm warning you, you're not going to like everything you hear. My family wasn't the greatest. They were hurt when they were young and then they hurt others. They weren't strong enough to break the cycle. Are you sure you still want to hear about them?"

  "I want to know. You can tell me. I can handle it," I said, placing a reassuring hand on my mother's knee.

  "Alright, then. Where do I start?" Momma asked, staring blankly at the train zipping by.

  "What were you like when you were my age?" I asked gently. I thought that might be an easy place to start.

  Momma thought for a second then said, "When I was your age, I didn't go to school either. Well, I never really went to a real school. I was home-schooled. My Ma taught me until I reached eighth grade, but I was ahead so I finished when I was twelve instead of thirteen. After that, I started helping out around the house more with the chores and things. I taught my little brothers and sisters their lessons, cooked, did pretty much anything my Ma asked me to do."

  "So, I have aunts and uncles?" I asked. The thought of having other family members was exciting to me. I didn't know my mother had siblings and it surprised me. How could she not mention them?

  Momma laughed slightly at that. "Yes, you do. Six, actually. Four uncles and two aunts. Your uncles are older than I am. I assume they're married now. They were good-looking. They're probably working in construction or something like that now. Something with their hands. They weren't the brightest boys. Your aunts are younger than me. I think they'd be in their early twenties now. I wouldn't be surprised if they were starting their own families as well. Who knows how many kids they all had. You might have nearly a hundred cousins."

  "A hundred cousins..." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Momma was probably over-exaggerating, but still. I suddenly had a deep desire to meet them. I wondered if they would look like me. I wondered if they would like me.

&nb
sp; "My parents were what you would call conservative. There were a lot of rules my siblings and I had to follow growing up. We couldn't watch television, we couldn't go to parties, we couldn't dance, we weren't allowed to listen to certain types of music, and we didn't get to go anywhere without asking our parents first. The only friends I ever had were ones from our church because I wasn't allowed to socialize in any other way. Church was the only way I could meet people my own age."

  "Was it like St. Patrick's?" I asked. Going to the cathedral to pray on weekday mornings was the only experience I had with church.

  Momma chuckled cynically. "No, not all. Our church was fundamentalist. It wasn't a place you could just go and pray or read the Bible. The church controlled almost every aspect of our lives. We weren't allowed to choose how to dress, what kinds of books to read, or anything like that. We were barely allowed to choose who we wanted to marry."

  I was shocked at what I was hearing. I felt like I barely even knew my mother anymore. "That- that sounds awful," I said.

  "It was. And very lonely."

  "Why didn't your family just not go to church?" I asked innocently.

  "They couldn't just not go to church. Religion was who they were. It was a part of their identity. They were conservative Christians. They took pride in that. They took pride in following their rules and they loved to pretend they were better than the people who didn't follow their rules. That's why I had to leave," Momma said sadly.