Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  “Are you pleased?” he asked, smiling. He continued to squint through his retarded glasses.

  Frustrated, ready to leave, and tired, I lied. “Yes, father, I am pleased.”

  Overall, I was pleased about the gift. I stood and stared at it, disappointed at what it was. My sister, mother, and father started walking to the garage, all talking, looking at the car. I stood and stared at it, thinking to myself. How could they actually expect me to make any form of progress in finding someone to love me, if I were to be seen driving this car every day. It was almost as if it were some form of punishment. Like a scar on my face that would prevent someone from actually seeing me for who I am. They would see the car and just say “no” before they got a chance to actually see who I was. People could be so shallow. So inconsiderate. So fake. Fake people were so prevalent in my school. All I want out of life is for someone to love me truly for who I am. How could they expect that to ever happen if I was forced to drive the white BMW?

  Some of the girls in school did drive cars that were similar to the white BMW, but they are prettier than I am. They are always pretty. They wear makeup. They don’t have as nice of a collection of clothes as I do, and they don’t have my sense of fashion, but they are pretty. I am pretty, but it takes time. I have to wear makeup, which my father prohibits, have my hair fixed, and be dressed properly. If I have enough time, I can be almost as pretty as the prettiest girls in my school, but not quite. I needed this car to be the thing that put me over the top of the other girls. Something that put me in a category all by myself. Something that defined who I was.

  When we arrived at the mall, I separated myself from my parents as best as I could and tried to shop alone, so I didn’t have to listen to the complaints about the high prices of my selections. While I was looking at a dress, and trying to find the price tag, I couldn’t help but notice a boy looking at me from across the store. I looked back down at the dress, feeling a little bit embarrassed. I fumbled for the tag, and began to wonder what he was looking at. The next time I looked up, he was standing beside me, in front of the rack of dresses.

  “Hey,” he said, as he pushed his hands into his jeans pockets.

  He was dressed in jeans, brown lace up boots, a white button down shirt, and wore an old, worn, brown leather jacket over the shirt. He was tall, about six feet, and thin, but appeared to be muscular. His hair was long, and had an unkempt look, but was stylish. He looked like Harry in 1D, but more manly. He was white, and, by my standards, he was perfect. I looked around the store to make sure my parents didn’t see me talking to a boy who was not Egyptian.

  “Do you work here?” I asked.

  Clearly he didn’t work at the mall, dressed as he was, and wearing that leather jacket inside the store. I didn’t know what else to say, and that was really all I could think of on such short notice. I talked to a lot of boys, but almost all of them were communicated with through the social media networks, and they didn’t require looking at them, or being looked at by them, at least not in person. I felt comfortable with the boys on the Internet, because I could be whoever I wanted to be, and take as long as I wanted to answer a question. On the Internet, everyone paid attention to me. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing, and everyone commented on my postings. I had over a thousand followers on Twitter, 50,000 tweets and almost two thousand friends on Facebook.

  “No, I am here looking for a new belt.” Raising his leather jacket and exposing his belt, I could see his wide brown belt. “This one is brown, but I need a new black one,” he continued.

  He looked at my eyes each time he spoke to me. His gaze never faded from my eyes when he spoke. Slowly, after he finished speaking, he looked down my entire body, and for a moment focused on my feet - as if he were picking me apart. I wished that he would just speak and tell me why he was here looking at me. I remembered, relieved, that I wore my Jimmy Choo’s.

  “I like the belt you have.” After the words came out, I felt like such a fool. He was looking in my eyes again while I was speaking. He looked at me each time he spoke to me, and was just as focused when I spoke to him. I liked this boy. I liked this boy a lot.

  “I like it too. I need to get a new Brown one. Black one. I mean this one is brown. I need a black one. I have a brown one. Black one. I am going to buy a new black one,” he said, smiling. His teeth were sooooo white.

  “I’m sorry, you make me nervous,” he said. His eyes remained focused on mine. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he rocked back and forth on his feet. “You’re just, well, so beautiful. It doesn’t even seem like you have on any make up. Yet you, just like you are standing here, are so much more beautiful than any other girl I have ever seen in my life. I would like to know more about you. I am Marc. What’s your name, gorgeous?”

  It was so hot in the store. I could feel myself getting sick from the heat. My legs started to feel rubbery, and I felt like all the blood from my body was rushing toward my face. I turned both directions, looking for a sign of my parents. My parents, especially my father, would kill me if they saw me talking to a white boy. My family was Egyptian, and I was, according to my parents, to have no interest in anyone but Egyptian boys.

  “I’m Britney,” I said. For some reason, that’s all that came out of my mouth. I stood, unable to speak, and just admired this boy. He was so cute. His smile made me feel so good. The way he stuttered when he tried to tell me about his belt just made him seem so real. So, well, genuine. The boys at school were so fake, and didn’t really even give me the time of day. I looked again for my parents, fearing they would see me before he decided to walk away.

  “Where are you from, Britney?”

  “East Brunswick,” I responded. “And you?”

  “East Brunswack, huh? I’m in South Plainfield. Are you waiting on someone? You look like you‘re waiting for someone. You keep looking around, Britney,” He continued to shuffle back and forth on his feet.

  He ran his right hand through his hair. He seemed to be nervous, and looked at his watch. There was no way that this boy was nervous about seeing me. Is that even possible? Nervous? Certain that he wasn’t nervous, I kept looking at him, trying to decide what it was about him that I wasn’t sure of. I got lost for what seemed like an eternity admiring his good looks and his white teeth. I had never seen a boy that looked like this, and I was pretty sure he didn’t have to do anything to look like this.

  “Are you waiting on someone?” he asked again, looking into my eyes as he spoke.

  “Oh, no. I am just nervous. I have never met anyone like you before. Uhhhhm, do you have Facebook?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t….”

  “Twitter?” As I spoke, I realized that I had interrupted him. I flipped my hair over my shoulder, and moved where he could see my good side, my left side. My right side always made me look much fatter than I actually was, and my left side made me look thin. Looking over my left shoulder, I waited for a response.

  “Actually, I don’t utilize any of the social networking that most people do, Britney,” he responded.

  I stood and stared at him. My mouth open, I couldn’t speak. Why doesn’t he have Facebook? Twitter? How does he function? Maybe his parents were strict. For what seemed like an eternity, I stood and stared. Dreaming of him touching me, I stood and stared. That was all I did. Stared. I heard someone sneeze behind me and I jumped, turning around. A lady passed by, and smiled. I looked back over my left shoulder at him, and he smiled. His eyes focused on mine, he began to speak again. I liked the way he said my name when he spoke to me.

  “I do not have Facebook. I do not have Twitter. I do not spend any time on Tumblr, post pictures, use Snapchat, Instagram, or spend time on YouTube. To me, that’s a waste of my time. I look at my life as being far more important than that. I read, write poetry, and spend time listening to music. I try to have some depth, and not be like everyone else. Reading and writing poetry helps me with that,” he paused, looked up at the ceiling, and then looked back down, and
continued, “If someone wants to know where I am, who I am with, what I am shopping for, where I am eating, or whatever, I want them to know because they actually know me. Or because they are accompanying me. Oh, and I do not watch television or the news. It’s always such bad things that they talk about. If they had a channel called the good news, I would watch it. But all the news is bad. Know what I mean, Britney?”

  I nodded. My focus was stuck on his eyes.

  He took his hands from his pockets, and looked at his watch again. He then held his hands out in front of him, motioning with them as he spoke, “The news is just full of bad things that happen. A bombing here, a shooting there. Someone cheated people out of money. A company lost millions by the hand of an embezzler. A massive wreck on 95. It’s always something. If they said, well, if they said, say, ‘construction is complete on 95, and it is three months early. Home sales are up in Morgantown, the economy is on the upswing, and unemployment is down to one percent across the nation, more after this commercial,’ if that was ever on the news, I may watch it. I do read the newspaper before school. Every day. I do that, because I can decide what to read, and what to set aside.”

  Nervously, I spoke, “That is so cool. Definitely different, but cool. Uhhhhm, I hate to be forward, Marc, but would you like my number?”

  “Yes, Britney, I was going to ask you if you wanted to get something to eat,” he motioned for the door, and walked toward me.

  “No, I have to meet my family for lunch. It’s my birthday today, so we’re having lunch,” I shifted my body so he would stay on my left.

  “How old are you, Britney?” he asked.

  I should lie. So I did a little bit, “Eighteen.”

  “Cool, me too,” He reached in his inner jacket pocket and got his phone.

  “Okay,” I started, “Nine Zero Eight Three Four Seven Seven One Four Seven”

  “That’s too many numbers,” he said, puzzled, looking up from his phone as he punched in the numbers.

  “What do you have so far?” I asked.

  He held out his phone, showing me the number. I reached out, and deleted one of the sevens while he held the phone. With his other hand he reached over and touched my arm, sliding his hand down my arm until it stopped at my hand. Cupping my hand with his, he spoke, “Pleasure to meet you, Britney.” He smiled as he looked into my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Marc, I have to run and meet my family. Shoot me a text okay?” Reluctantly, I pulled my hand slowly from his.

  He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair again, turned, and walked toward the door that led to the parking lot. I stood and watched him until he went through the door. As he exited, he held the door for a family as they entered. Smiling, he spoke to them as if he knew them.

  A long moment passed. My phone beeped. I reached into my purse, and pulled it out. After swiping in the password, I looked at the screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Britney. I miss you already. I cannot wait to see you again. Happy Birthday, Marc.

  I programmed the number in as “Marc.”

  Yes, I liked this boy. Alot.

  Chapter 5

  Fuck oatmeal

  MicHELLE. By the time I realized that the alarm was going off, it had been going off for three minutes. As I often did, I had fallen asleep after being up late on the internet. Scanning photos of tattoos that I find interesting is a means of escape for me. It gives me the ability to dream. To dream of what is depicted, and that one day I could, like the people in the photos, have the freedom to express myself through a tattoo that I designed myself. The time that I spend admiring the photos allows me to forget the rules and regulations of my typical Egyptian family for a short period of time.

  Beginning when I was five years old, my family started traveling back and forth between the United States and Egypt. As with many Egyptian families, my family dreamed of living in the United States, working hard, raising a family, and being successful. The problem, in my opinion, was with the last portion of that dream. Being successful and raising a family. I would prefer successfully raising a family. The burden borne by an Egyptian high school kid in my neighborhood in New Jersey was grand. We were expected to be adults in almost all respects, but we were treated as children, and constantly reminded of the fact, that we were children.

  Seven months from now, I will be attending Villanova University. Upon completion of my education there, it will be on to Drexel University for medical school. I am, and not to my disliking, going to follow in my mother’s footsteps and become a doctor. I suppose that this was expected of me, but ultimately, it was a conscious decision that I had made. The thought of being a doctor satisfied me greatly. Helping people. Saving lives. Making a difference. Saving something. Doing what so many others cannot. Not everyone has the capacity to go to school and become a medical doctor. I do, and I intended to do so, and do it well. I did not have this desire just because my family expected it, but because it was what I wanted to do. It defined me. Me being me.

  When I was around eight years of age my family moved to the United States full time. Following my immediate family moving here, most of our extended family relocated here in a very short period of time. And here, in New Jersey, we reside. A few of our family members remain in Egypt, and from time to time, as our schedule allows, we visit them.

  Living my life with an open mind, I try to look at things realistically, and without bias, I find myself frequently spending a significant amount of time looking at the many sides of a new topic that is being discussed, be it by my friends or my family, and not giving an opinion. I will take a tremendous amount of time to think about the subject, and look at it from each possible point of view. Generally, I try to look at it as if I were every possible person that is or could be affected by the decision I may make. I feel that this open minded nature allows me to make more educated decisions. It allows me, again, to be me. My free will, stubborn nature, and spirit got me into a considerable amount of trouble with my parents throughout my childhood.

  When I was ten years old, although we were not Catholic, to teach me discipline, my parents sent me to catholic school. I spent the majority of my spare time after school lying in my room crying. As all children do at some point in time, I wanted to run away or commit suicide. The logical side of my thinking prevented me from doing either. That year was the only year I was required to attend the Catholic school, and one year was certainly enough.

  I am close to very few kids in my school. The kids I am close to, I am extremely close to. The ones that I am not close to, are either kids that I do not know, or kids that I do know, and choose not to be friends with. The kids in school that do not know me very well often describe me as a bitch, and I like that. Their thoughts of me being a bitch generally means that if they do finally approach me, they have already decided that I am not as the other kids may think that I am. Some of the kids may describe me as being conceited or uppity, but nothing could be further from the truth.

  I like to think that I have attractive qualities, my most attractive being my inner self. My mind, spirit, soul, beliefs, principles, opinions, and general manner of living life. The outside of me is, in my own opinion, generally drab. Average at best, nothing to neither balk at, nor praise. People that described me, however, often described me as beautiful. When girls described me as beautiful, I am appreciative, and take their remarks into account. When boys say that I am beautiful, I generally set the remark aside. Boys cannot be trusted. Boys have motives.

  I vary from my Egyptian elders in many respects. All of the values that my parents and relatives try to adhere to aren’t necessarily shared by me. Tattoos are one, but very important example. When I see a person who has a tattoo, I am often fascinated by it. I wonder what it means to them, the significance. Often, I find the tattoo to be beautiful, or an enhancement of the person’s beauty. I am not so simple and shallow that I believe that all tattoos on all people are beautiful, or that they always provide some form of enhancement to beauty. I ha
ve dreamed of the day that I turn eighteen, being free to decide, and I had made an appointment at a local tattoo parlor for my first tattoo to be obtained on that day. It was a means of expression, and, in my opinion, enhancing my beauty. It would allow me to be, in all respects, me.

  On a typical evening in my typical Egyptian home, with my typical Egyptian parents, and my typical Egyptian brother, we had a typical Egyptian meal. The typical Egyptian discussion that followed was not, in any regard, what I anticipated.

  The discussion started about tattoos, and all was going fairly well. Tattoos are becoming mainstream. Tattoos are more prevalent on people in college and in professional sports. Tattoos are more frequently seen on professionals, and in professional atmospheres and careers. Tattoos are a great form of individual expression. Unless. Unless your Egyptian daughter wants to receive one. When your Egyptian daughter wants to receive one, tattoos become trash. They become a permanent means of not only being trash, but of turning you into trash. Tattoos are not, according to my parents, for Egyptian girls, regardless of their age.

  End of story.

  Tattoo trash attached to my body. In my opinion, it was a means of expression, and confirmation that I was an adult, and capable of making decisions on my own. I was fascinated by tattoos, and spent countless hours, sometimes nightly, on Tumblr looking at tattoo photographs of both men and women. I had planned on getting a tattoo since I was as young as twelve. A considerable amount of time, thought, and planning had gone into my anticipated tattoos, including design, meaning, and when I expected to obtain each one. This was not a rash decision that I had made as a seventeen year old; to run and have a tribal winged piece tattooed on my lower back, above the belt line.

  Tattoos, to me, were a form of expression, or expressed art. If given enough thought, they were a way of expressing individuality. They can be a manner of expressing creativity in a personality, making a statement, or expressing a strong belief. They could not, however, according to my parents, be attached to their now seventeen year old daughter after she turned eighteen,