Because I'm Disposable

by Rosie Somers

  “Why are you suddenly paying attention to me?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I certainly didn’t want to hear him say it was because he felt sorry for me.

  His eyes widened, and he floundered for a moment before answering. “I’ve always paid attention to you, Callista. You’ve just never noticed before.” His voice was quiet, like a gentle snowfall, but the words resonated deep within my mind. Was it true? Had I always overlooked Link because I assumed he was doing the same with me?

  He pierced me with an earnest look, then switched his gaze back to his sneakers. I wanted to say something, should have said something. A denial, an apology—anything. The words wouldn’t come.

  “So, anyway. Everything you should need for the quiz should be there, and I can bring you our work on Monday too. You know, if you want.” Link saved me from the silence once again.

  I cleared my throat before answering this time. “Thanks.”

  A door slammed upstairs, seconds before footsteps creaked across the landing. “Oh, Callie, you have company!” My mother called over the banister. When I shifted to look over my shoulder, she was rushing down the stairs toward us. She must have just woken up. Her pale pink, cotton pajamas were wrinkled, and her hair was a grey-brown nest of curls and tangles. Yesterday’s mascara was smeared under one eye, and she had a trace of bright red lip-gloss smeared across the opposite cheek.

  Yeah, this wasn’t about to get embarrassing, or anything. I cringed when she reached the bottom and rounded the banister, coming to stand behind Dad’s chair. She rested her hands on the back of the recliner and smiled brightly at Link.

  “Callie, you didn’t tell me you were having a friend over. Not that I mind or anything. I’m happy you have friends coming around. I don’t think you’ve ever brought a friend home. Especially not such a cute one!”

  “Mom!” At that point, part of me wished I was the one taking a dirt nap instead of my father.

  And then Corrine was there, swooping in like my little guardian angel to save me from further humiliation. “Mom, knock it off.” She must have been listening in from the kitchen, but right at that moment, I couldn’t be anything but grateful. Corrine gently grabbed hold of my mother’s elbow and turned her around, steering her toward the kitchen.

  To his credit, Link acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, like he was used to seeing pajama-clad, middle-aged women embarrass their daughters. “I should probably get going. I’ve got a lot of chores to do before my mom gets home.” He stood and reached for his backpack, slipping a strap over one shoulder.

  “Oh, okay. Thanks for this.” I held the notes up in the air, only just stopping myself from waving them nervously at him. Instead, I dropped them onto the coffee table and got up to follow him to the door.

  He reached for the knob, but faced me before he turned it. “Are you like, grounded or anything?” he asked, holding me hostage with the intensity in his sea-green eyes.

  I shook my head. “No, not really. I mean, my mom didn’t say anything.”

  “Cool. Maybe we can hang out or something this weekend?” He was looking at his sneakers again and shuffling the toe of his left one in a semicircle around the right.

  I bit back a dorky grin that threatened to take over my face. “Yeah, that would be cool. Let me know.”

  He nodded and opened the door, stepping out a heartbeat later. As he took the handful of porch steps to the front walk, he threw a “see ya” over his shoulder and headed for his place across the street.

  I closed the door and leaned back against it with my eyes closed. When I opened them, my mother and Corrine were standing in front of me, grinning like loons.

  “Did I hear that right? Lincoln asked you out on a date?” Corrine clasped her hands to her chest in an image of mock feminine wilting.

  “Shut up. He didn’t ask me out on a date; he asked if I wanted to hang out.” I brushed past them both and made for the stairs.

  I had one foot on the bottom step when my mother gushed, “You should invite him to hang out here. It’s so nice to see you with a friend. Maybe even a boyfriend?”

  Her enthusiasm struck a nerve I hadn’t known was tender. I spun to face her. “Why do you care? Aren’t you a little late to the butt-in-on-Callie’s-life party?” Guilt crept up on me as the words were coming out of my mouth, and was even worse when her cheery look crumbled into a mask of hurt.

  For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t stop there. I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth at her. “All you’ve ever cared about is yourself. You don’t care that you’re embarrassing the crap out of me when you come downstairs looking like a sloppy narcoleptic in front of the first person who’s ever come over to see me. Do me a favor, and go back to barely acknowledging my existence, like you did before Dad died.” I couldn’t stand the sight of tears swimming in her eyes or the way her bottom lip quivered slightly by the time I’d finished my rant. I charged up the stairs to my room.

  As I rounded the doorframe and turned to slam my bedroom door, Corrine’s voice floated up the stairs. “Don’t cry, Mom. She didn’t mean it. She’s just having a hard time right now. She loves you. I know she does.”

  Did I? I wasn’t sure I loved anyone, including myself. How could I love when I didn’t know what love was?

  Chapter Five

  All weekend. I waited the entire weekend for Link to show up to ‘hang out’. I tried to pretend I was keeping busy, reading, or cleaning, or anything else that might keep my mother and Corrine from noticing how much I was anticipating spending time with Link. And how disappointed I was that he didn’t call or come over.

  By Sunday afternoon, I’d given up pretending and had confined myself to the bean bag chair under my bedroom window. I wasn’t trying to stare out at Link’s house; it was just a coincidence that the window faced that way. At least that’s what I told myself while I sat there with the saddest playlist I could find streaming on the computer.

  I should have known he wouldn’t come over, wouldn’t even bother to call. I was foolish to think he was being anything other than polite when he implied he wanted to spend time with me.

  Despite my certainty that he wasn’t coming over, I still got a little thrill in the pit of my stomach when he stepped out of his house late in the afternoon. The moment was short-lived, though, as he headed for the side of his house and disappeared around the corner, only to reappear a minute later with a push lawn mower. He wasn’t on his way over, because apparently, even cutting the grass was preferable to being around me.

  I felt a little voyeuristic, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he steered the mower to the edge of his lawn. My gaze was absolutely glued to him when he shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it toward the driveway. It fluttered gracefully down onto the concrete slab, the white cotton contrasting with the grey surface.

  Link shirtless was a sight to behold. He was tan and toned, muscular in all the right places, lean in all the rest. His denim shorts hung low on his hips, revealing a hint of black boxer briefs. Muscles flexed and rippled as he bent to pull the starter on the mower. It took him a few tries to get it started, but once he did, he took off, clearing a strip of grass the length of his yard and swinging around to make a pass the other direction.

  With the afternoon sun beating down on him, that delicious tan was only going to improve. In no time, his skin was glistening with sweat. I knew I shouldn’t be watching him mow the lawn, or at least I shouldn’t be enjoying it so much. Especially not after he’d blown me off. But there was no denying Link was nice to look at. I really had been missing out not paying attention to him all these years.

  Link made short work of cutting the lawn, and then proceeded to do the best thing I’d ever seen. He jogged over to the garden hose, turned the knob, and held the stream of water directly over his head. I got up on my knees, practically pressing my face against the glass to get a better look. Water sluiced over him like a dream, soaking his hair and streaming down over his s
houlders, his chest, turning the light denim of his shorts dark. As he used his free hand to spread the water, rubbing it into his skin and washing the dirt and sweat away, I was so glad I’d ignored my instincts to not watch him.

  I made a slow perusal of his body, taking in the sinew, the musculature, the shadows and peaks of his abs and chest. Then I moved up: up to his full lips, open to capture some of the liquid pouring down his face; up to his eyes, closed in rapture. His eyes opened. And speared me.

  I couldn’t move for a moment, just stayed pinned to the spot, locked in a staring contest with him. I’d been caught spying. My stomach tumbled in mortification, and my heart raced into oblivion. What must have been a hundred years later, I recovered control over my limbs and ducked down below the windowsill. Ugh … I would never be able to face Link again.

  * * * * *

  I had trouble sleeping that night. My dreams were extreme and disjointed, and I tossed and turned most of the night away. Sleep was unpleasant from the outset, with my very first dream being a half-memory, half-imagination quasi-nightmare that started with me walking into English class my first day back at school after attempting to quit life.

  I slid into the room unnoticed and took the seat in the far back corner, next to Link. The room was darker than usual, like half the fluorescents bulbs overhead were out, and the air had a murky quality, like I was seeing through stagnant lake water. He didn’t spare me a glance, just stared with intent at a notebook open on his desk. The bell rang, and Mrs. Fields clapped her hands to gain the students’ attention.

  “Today, class, we’re going to read from one anothers’ journals. Mr. Devaux will read first, from Callista Tanner’s writings. Lincoln …” The hand she held out in invitation to Link was knobby-knuckled and little more than wrinkled skin and bone.

  Link moved with purpose to the podium. He had that notebook clutched tightly under one arm. I couldn’t tell for sure, but there might have been a paisley design on the dark blue cover, almost like Corrine’s diary. When he set it on the wood stand, he looked in my direction, but it was like he was looking over me, around me, through me. Then he read.

  “Daddy clocked me with Mom’s favorite vase tonight. The green one with the hand-painted roses on the front. He threw it at me because I forgot to vacuum the living room rug today. It didn’t break when it hit me, but it shattered into a thousand pieces when it fell to the floor.”

  Dear God. That had actually happened. Why were my words, my story, in Corrine’s diary? How did Link know? And now he was telling the entire class.

  Link continued, “I knew I was in for it the second the porcelain cracked against the oak floor. Why couldn’t we have had carpeting instead? Daddy’s face swelled with anger and turned an almost-shade of purple. I didn’t need to wait around to find out what he was going to do next. I already knew. So, I took off through the house as though the devil himself was after me. In a way, he was.”

  Every word that Link read from that horrible book, that journal I didn’t write—wouldn’t write in a million years—it all tore through my mind, cutting into me the way the pieces of that broken vase had cut into my bare feet when I’d stepped on them trying to get away.

  I wanted Link to stop, wanted to leap from my seat, rip that notebook away from him, and tear it to shreds with my bare hands. But I couldn’t move. Some invisible force was holding me immobile in my seat, forcing me to relive that terrifying night.

  He read on. “I don’t know why I thought I could hide from him in the basement. He was right behind me on the stairs, and the minute I was back on solid ground, he slammed into me, knocking me into the washing machine.”

  Pain sliced through my shoulder, where it had connected with the washer that night, and radiated out into my neck and down my spine.

  “Then, he was even angrier that I’d dented the metal. He backhanded me, knocking me into the dryer. Thank God I didn’t dent that too …”

  A phantom blow slammed into my cheek, the same way my father’s slap had caught me. Twice more, Link read about the abuse my father had inflicted on me that night—and twice more, I physically felt it, as if it were being inflicted right at that moment.

  Finally, I found my voice. “Stop! Please, stop!” I cried at the top of my lungs, but the sound was barely more than a faraway squeal, an echo of sound.

  That tiny voice was all that was needed, apparently, because Link immediately stopped reading, and everyone in the classroom except us disappeared, fading into nothingness. The room shrank to a fraction of its true size, until Link was standing a few feet in front of me. He skirted the podium to kneel at my side. I wasn’t paralyzed anymore, was able to turn to him.

  Link swept his thumb over the corner of my lip, and when he pulled his hand back, it was streaked with crimson. I stuck my tongue out, pressing it to the crease where my top lip met my bottom. The taste was tangy, metallic. My phantom injury was bleeding. Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t hold them back.

  “Shhh,” Link whispered as he wrapped gentle arms around me and pressed my face against his shoulder. “It’s okay, Callie. I’m here.”

  Yes, he was here. But was he reopening old wounds I’d thought were healed?

  I woke in a cold sweat, hoping morning was near enough that I wouldn’t have to go back to sleep. But it was only 12:43. From that point on until morning, the clock became my arch nemesis.

  Chapter Six

  Somewhere around four a.m. I gave up on sleep. If I had to lay in that bed for one minute longer, with nothing but the sound of Corrine’s soft snores and my own hard thoughts for company, I was going to come undone. As if I wasn’t unravelling already.

  I slipped off the bed and crept down to the living room. I settled into the corner of our threadbare couch and reached for the TV remote. A few minutes of channel-surfing proved that the only thing on at this hour were infomercials and reruns of westerns from when my grandmother was a kid. I didn’t last more than three minutes watching Gunsmoke before I scrambled for the remote and switched over to the shopping network.

  I must have nodded off, into blissfully dreamless sleep, because one minute I was watching the Jewelry Extravaganza and the next, Corrine was standing over me, the first dawning rays of sunlight peeking through the blinds to play in the chestnut waves of hair hanging over her shoulders.

  “Hey Cal, I’m off to school. I left you some cinnamon toast and O.J. here.” She motioned toward the coffee table, then patted my shoulder affectionately. “Love you.” And she was gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.

  I sat up and rubbed stiff fingers over bleary eyes. The insides of my eyelids scratched like sandpaper. Sleep—what little I’d managed to get—had fogged my mind, and I was having trouble shaking off the vestiges of cloudy lethargy.

  The small bit of light seeping in the window was momentarily blocked out by Corrine’s shadow as she passed in front of the house on her way to the bus stop. I reached up, pried two of the vertical blinds apart with gentle fingers, and watched my sister jog to the corner where a handful of other teens loitered, waiting for the bus. I felt a twinge of something I didn’t want to define. Part of me really wanted to be out there with the other kids, acting like a normal teenager, pretending I wasn’t the walking catastrophe I’d become.

  Link was there, with Sylvie Moss. They were talking, laughing; she was touching his arm with her perfectly manicured French tips. And I was ticked. I shouldn’t be, but I was. I tried to tell myself that it was about Sylvie—perfect, pixie-petite and fashionably-blue-eyed, brunette Sylvie—and not about Link talking to another girl. I didn’t have a claim on him; he’d made that clear when he stood me up this weekend. Would he have shown up if I was a girly-girl like Sylvie? Would he show more interest in me if I wore short skirts and tall heels like her?

  I lowered my gaze to my tattered, used-to-be-black sweats. I bet Sylvie would never be caught dead in something so horrific. Suddenly, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I was practically manic, ruled by the
need for change, to cast off my literal and proverbial rags and become something fresh and new. I didn’t need a makeover. I needed a reinvention.

  I nabbed a piece of the toast Corrine had left for me, stuffing it into my mouth in two bites and chasing it with the entire glass of orange juice. Then, I practically flew up the stairs, into my room, directly to the closet.

  Screw this. Screw being pretty. I wasn’t pretty, not inside or outside. Even my clothes were plain-Jane boring. I’d always valued comfort over aesthetics, but at some point, I’d stopped trying to even try to look decent. Covering the bruises was more important than keeping up with fashion. I ripped my closet doors open, nearly tearing the flimsy bi-folds right off the track, and stood back to survey my wardrobe. Baggy tees and a whole lot of denim.

  Before I even registered what I was doing, I began pulling hanger after hanger out of the closet and tossing my clothes into a pile on the floor. In minutes, I was through all the clothes I actually wore and had reached the ones I never touched. I pulled out a small, black tank with a skull and crossbones etched across the front in red rhinestones. I’d forgotten all about this top, the one Corrine had given me as a joke for my sixteenth birthday. Because she knew Dad would hate it.

  Now, I was actually considering wearing it. To spite my father, to spite myself for not being as brave as Corrine—to break every mold I’d tried so desperately to fit myself into my entire life. I reached an arm up over my shoulder and tugged my two-sizes-too-large, smoke-grey T-shirt over my head, dropping it onto the mountain of clothes at my feet. I slipped the skull tank on in its place.

  Next, I traded my faded sweat pants for a pair of skin-tight skinny jeans from Corrine’s side of the closet. She probably wouldn’t notice they were missing, since she had at least three more pairs just like them.

  I took three steps toward the door to survey myself in the full-length mirror hanging behind it. Disappointment set in the instant my reflection was visible. I’d been expecting something momentous, but I looked the same. My clothes might have been a far cry from my norm, but the person underneath hadn’t changed a bit. I still had the same flat, blonde hair, the same pale skin and sparse collection of tiny freckles. I still had my father’s slate-grey eyes with their tear-drop shape and pale lashes. My legs were still too long, my breasts too small. I didn’t want to be this person anymore, this reflection of a person I couldn’t stand.