by Julia Watts
That same night I was helping Ben with the dishes, and I told him that as soon as I settled into school I wanted to get a part-time job so I could help pay my way. He said to let him think and maybe we’d work something out. The next day he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him in the kitchen. He said, “You seem like a very responsible young woman.” I told him I’d had to be and talked about cooking meals and playing Didi for Mom. He said he’d never ask that much of me, but what if I “paid my way” by helping out around the house instead of getting a part-time job? If I cooked dinner a couple of nights a week and maybe watched the kids every once in a while so he and Adam could have an evening out, he said that would be more than earning my keep. Plus, he’d pay me enough of an allowance every week to keep me in coffee and Wednesday night movies. That way, he said, I could concentrate on my schoolwork my senior year. He also said I’m welcome to stay with them until it’s time to start college.
But I’ve got to tell you about cooking dinner for the family. I was nervous when I agreed to it because cooking for seven people is way different than cooking for two like I was used to. But the other reason was because Ben and Adam eat way different than Mom and me ever did. Everything is fresh and homemade—roast chicken and vegetables, the lasagna I mentioned earlier, even their macaroni and cheese is homemade instead of from a blue box. I told Ben I didn’t know much about real cooking, and he took down this big yellow book called How to Cook Everything and said, “Just pick out some recipes you like and follow them. They’re pretty hard to screw up. But you’ll want to double the amounts for everything since you’re cooking for a small army.” So on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I pick a recipe from the cookbook, get some money from Ben, and walk to the grocery store (which is huge!) to buy the ingredients. And Rufus, here’s the thing. I’ve discovered I love to cook. I mean, I really love it. I put on some music and start chopping vegetables and start a pan heating, and it’s like I’m dancing. I love the colors and the sounds and the smells and the flavors. I wonder if this is how you feel when you’re painting? Ben already says the food I cook tastes better than his, and Adam says he’d agree if he wasn’t afraid of creating a domestic disturbance. Of course, I have made a few cooking disasters, like the cake I forgot to put baking powder in. Adam (who’s Jewish) said, “Why, Syd, you made matzoh. And it’s not even Passover!”
I want to tell you about starting school too, but first I have to tell you about the best shopping trip ever. The Saturday before I was going to start, Ben said, “Well, Zoe came to this house with a whole trunk of couture, but you’ve got next to nothing. How do you feel about thrift shops?” I said I’d marry one if it was legal. So Ben and Zoe and I went on this amazing tour of the thrift shops of Chicago. And the stuff I found! A black-and-white herringbone peacoat (because Ben says when winter comes I won’t know what hit me). A black dress with a white Peter Pan collar. A real sweater set in lavender and a charcoal-gray pencil skirt to go with it. Plus a great pair of broken-in black Levi’s and a black denim jacket and a few long-sleeved T-shirts because it’s already getting a little chilly.
While we were out, Ben showed me the place where Josephine’s movie theater used to be (it’s a restaurant now). I told him I’d always wanted to go up in the Sears Tower. He said it was called the Willis Tower now, but he’d be happy to take me, that he’d lived in Chicago his whole life, but he’d never been up in the tower. When we went up to the observatory and saw the city spread out underneath us, it was beautiful, but we were so high that at first I thought I was going to throw up. But then I took a deep breath, and after that I felt like I was flying. Just like I said I would, I yelled, “I’m free!” Ben laughed and Zoe called me crazy, but she said it in a friendly way.
The social worker who helped me get enrolled in school is a pretty lesbian named Diana, who’s friends with Ben and Adam. She told me that “for bureaucratic purposes” we should just say I’m couch surfing instead of staying indefinitely at Ben and Adam’s. That way, I’d be counted as a runaway and homeless and could enroll in school without needing Mom to sign anything. Morgan Park High School is so huge the school secretary gave me a map of it the first day. I suck at reading maps, so it was a good thing that Zoe’s been going there a few months and can find her way around. It’s amazing how diverse it is. You can stand in the hall for one minute and see a Muslim girl with her traditional head covering, then another girl with pink spiky hair and face piercings, then a guy dressed like a rapper. The classes are much more interesting than at Vermillion High, but much harder too. I’m really having to study instead of slacking. I haven’t really made any friends yet. Nobody’s given me any crap or anything, but it seems like all the kids are so much cooler than I am. They’re always talking about bands I’ve never heard of or stuff off the Internet that everybody seems to know about but me. And then a few people have told me my accent is “adorable,” which makes me feel like I might as well be wearing overalls and chewing on a piece of straw. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still glad I’m here. I just haven’t found my footing yet.
Zoe’s here with me in our attic room as I write, and she said to tell you hi. She also asked if you were cute and I said yes and told her you have red hair and dress like James Dean. She sighed and said you sounded “hot” (I know you hate that word) and that it’s too bad you’re only into guys.
Well, I’d better stop writing before my hand falls off. Tell Mr. D I miss him and his coffee, and (I don’t believe I’m saying this) tell Brandy hi too. Give my love to Josephine and Cole, and keep telling me what movies you’re seeing without me so I can catch up. And thank you for the painting. It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten.
Love,
Syd
Dear Rufus,
I’M WRITING because I’m worried. I sent my last letter over two weeks ago and I haven’t heard back from you. I broke down and called your house yesterday but nobody answered, and apparently your parents are so old-fashioned that they haven’t even discovered the wonders of the answering machine yet.
I guess the easiest explanation for what’s happened is that my letter to you got lost in the mail. But I’ve spent the past week thinking it’s something worse than that. Maybe my letter did reach you but something I said in it offended you or hurt your feelings. Or maybe you’re not okay somehow. Could you please write me back as soon as you get this even if it’s just a one-sentence note that says “I’m okay”? And if I did say anything to make you sad or mad, please know I didn’t mean it that way. I never want to make you anything other than happy. Please write!
Love,
Syd
Dear Syd,
EVERYTHING IS fine! Well, actually it isn’t, but I mean, between us it’s fine, always. Please don’t worry—ever! I can’t imagine you ever doing anything to hurt my feelings, but if you do I promise I’ll tell you, and I hope you’ll do the same. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written; you’ll understand why, but it’s a long story.
A couple of weeks ago, or maybe more like three, I’m really not sure, I got beaten up pretty badly. I had a concussion, a black eye, and my face was all swollen, and I also had two bruised ribs and my right wrist was, and still is, broken—fortunately not the one I write with! The worst thing of all is that it’s been as if everything’s gray and there’s no color. I didn’t call because I couldn’t talk, at least not where you’d have been able to understand me. It sounded like I had a mouthful of marbles or something. I didn’t want you to hear the news from my mom, and Josephine and Cole didn’t know about it for the same reason that you didn’t, though Josephine eventually did call, talk to Mom, and learn what happened. I’m still not 100% as far as talking goes, or anything else either, but here’s this letter—because I wanted you to hear it from me first.
The good news is that, though right now I kind of look like something out of a horror movie—my face is all bruised—the doctors say that I’m going to be okay, and that although there’ll be a small scar on my forehead, ev
entually I’ll look more or less the same. It’s so weird to think that I’ll have a scar on my forehead just like Cole. I guess it’s like the mark on gay men of Vermillion, which really gives me the creeps.
I know probably your first question is, who beat you up? And the truth is that I don’t know for sure, because I don’t remember everything, and maybe that’s a good thing, you know? The last thing I remember is leaving school, and then all of a sudden there was this thunder of footsteps, of a group of people running toward me. It sounded like a herd of cattle or something. I turned around, but what’s weird is that I couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t make out faces—or not that I can remember. I’m pretty sure I heard Tyler Thompson’s voice. And I remember feeling cornered, like the whole town of Vermillion had closed in on me. Like I was trapped. And I kind of remember the first blow to my head, and closing my eyes, for some reason. It was all kind of like my painting for Michael Foster coming to life—all those violent colors, except even more intense because it was me. After that, I don’t remember anything, and the next thing I knew I was in the hospital. Turns out, Cody Johnston’s father found me lying on the ground just off school property, in pretty bad shape, so he called 911 on his cell phone. I was in the hospital for a few days (I’m not sure how long) for observation for the concussion and also for treatment. I never knew bruised ribs could be so painful (don’t make me laugh)!
This whole thing has actually had kind of a domino effect. Once Mama and Daddy knew I was going to be okay and I could talk even just a little bit, Mama asked me who’d done it, and Daddy wanted to know what I might have done to provoke such a beating. So I told them that though I couldn’t remember anything, it was probably some of the guys from school who think I’m gay. And then Daddy asked, “Well, are you?” And because of everything that had happened I felt like I had to be honest and tell them the truth.
Daddy hasn’t dealt too well with it. Things have been pretty cool between us since then, but I have to tell you that Mama has actually been pretty great. I’m so proud of her! She told me that she’d wondered for quite a while, but that she’d decided to let me come around to telling her on my own. She also made a point of telling me that she loves me no matter what! She and Josephine have become kind of friendly as a result of all this too, which is both weird and wonderful at the same time. Josephine is talking about starting some kind of an antibullying program at Vermillion High, which I guess would make me something of a poster boy.
Cole, as you can probably imagine, has been a total sweetheart throughout the whole thing. Ever since Josephine told him what happened, it’s like he can’t do enough. He’s brought me more flowers than I could have ever wanted. In fact, because of my sensitivity to scents of any kind, Mama had to spread them around to the other patients in the hospital. But he’s also brought me rainbow balloons and stuffed animals and chocolate…. Of course, he keeps breaking down and crying a lot too. I’m sure this must have brought back a lot of bad memories for him. I can’t bring myself to tell him about the scar, but I guess he’ll realize it soon enough.
Oh, I almost forgot: while I was in the hospital it was reported in the local news that two men have been arrested in Michael Foster’s death. It wasn’t anybody from school or anybody we know.
Okay, I’m going to end this now because I still get tired pretty fast, and dumb from the pain meds.
Oh, yeah—one more thing. I’m going to dye my hair black as soon as I can, thinking maybe it will make me look more tough and less vulnerable. And it will go with all of my black clothes too. Do you think I should have your mom do it? Kidding!
Tell me what’s up with you, and I promise I’ll get back to normal letter writing in my next one, I mean where I actually respond to your letters and the things you say in them.
I still miss you, but that’s redundant.
Love,
Rufus
Dear Rufus,
OH MY God, I don’t even know what to say about what happened to you. I’ve been crying ever since I read your letter, and what I really want to do is throw my arms around you and tell you it’s okay. But that would be wrong because what happened to you is definitely not okay. It may be a good thing that you’re not sure who beat you up because if you did, I’d have to set foot in Vermillion again long enough to kick their asses. Not that I’ve ever kicked anybody’s ass before, but I feel like my extreme anger would give me the power to do it, like I could be some kind of avenging dyke superhero.
Since I can’t put my arms around you or kick anybody’s ass, I baked you some cookies instead, which you’ve probably already found in this package. I know, baking cookies isn’t as hardcore as being an avenging lesbian superhero, but I did what I could. They’re “kitchen sink” cookies with oatmeal and peanut butter and walnuts and two kinds of chocolate chunks. I didn’t put raisins in them because I remember you told me once that raisins in cookies were always disappointing because you expect them to be chocolate chips. The bag of coffee in the package is from Ben and Adam. I told them what happened and they wanted to give you a get-well present. The coffee’s from this gourmet place in town, and it’s pretty strong stuff, but since you’re used to Mr. D’s, you can handle it. The brochures are from an antibullying campaign a friend of Ben’s started at a local high school. He thought Josephine might want to take a look at them, and he says to give Josephine his love.
I know words and cookies aren’t enough to ease the pain of what happened to you. But please know how much I love you and that even if things aren’t okay now, they will be once you’re out of Vermillion. In the meantime you’ve got Josephine and Cole working to make things closer to okay. It’s great that your mom’s being so cool too. Maybe your dad will come around. If not, it’s his loss.
Oh, I have done one more thing for you, but I did it for me too. I dyed my hair black to match yours. At first I was just going to use dye out of a box, but Ben said home-dyed black hair makes a girl look like she stuck her head in a bucket of shoe polish. He insisted on taking me to this expensive salon, and I’ve got to tell you, it was about as different from the Hair Affair as two businesses of the same type can be. It was in a skyscraper instead of a trailer, and the inside was all leather and chrome. Before they washed my hair, they gave me a fluffy bathrobe to wear and a glass of ice water with cucumber slices (!) in it. The stylist was this muscular gay guy with a shaved head. His name was Serge, but I bet that’s not the name his mama gave him. I was a little worried about what it might mean to have a bald hair stylist, but he did a great job. He loved hearing my stories about the Hair Affair and said it sounded just like Steel Magnolias. I wanted to be on his good side, so I just smiled and nodded.
So my hair’s black now, but with a difference. I got one bright red streak put in it as a tribute to your true color and your real self. It’s a reminder that one day you won’t have to use protective coloration.
I never thought I’d be the kind of girl who’d join a club in school, but of course the only clubs I knew were the ones at Vermillion High: the Pep Club, the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, the Future Farmers of America. But at Empahi (that’s what everybody calls Morgan Park High), there’s a Gay-Straight Alliance. Zoe’s a member, so I got my courage up and went with her. And Rufus, the club is huge. There are gay, bi, and transgender kids, but just like the club’s name says, there are also lots of straight kids who want to show support for their gay friends and family members. Zoe says I should say “LGBT” instead of “gay” all the time. I’m working on it, but it seems like I always get my tongue tangled. Everybody in the Gay-Straight Alliance seems really cool, and there’s this one girl I’ve started hanging out with and eating lunch with sometimes, which is good since Zoe and I don’t have the same lunch period. Her name’s Renatta, but she goes by Ree. She’s this really butch black girl who wears tracksuits and ball caps and braids like some guy rappers do. She’s got this really beautiful girlfriend who goes to another school, so she and I aren’t going to be anything other than
friends. But she’s funny and sweet, and it’s nice to have her butch boyishness to balance out Zoe’s girly-girlness.
I have to tell you a secret about Zoe. But of course it’ll be a secret because who would you tell it to, right? The other night we were in our attic room, flipping through magazines, and she offered to do my nails. She had some midnight-blue polish I liked, so I said sure. She was holding my hand in one of hers so she could file my nails. The sleeve of her blouse slipped up a little, and I saw a raised pink scar running up the inside of her wrist. She saw that I saw and yanked her sleeve down. She gave a nervous little laugh and said, “Now you know why I always wear long sleeves. If I ever move away from a cold climate, I’ll be screwed.” She told me that she didn’t grow up in Chicago but in rural Illinois “cow country.” She said between her Bible-beating parents and the bullies at her old school, things got so bad she tried to kill herself. She had to stay in the hospital for a long time, first because she lost so much blood and then because of her “psychiatric problems.” She said the therapy in the psych ward actually helped her because the shrink made her see that the solution to her problem wasn’t death but a life somewhere else, which is why she ended up moving to Chicago and living with Ben and Adam. She said she had no idea she could ever be so happy. I know I joke about how girly Zoe is, but if I’ve ever made her sound shallow, I’m sorry. Her scars run deep.
I also wanted to mention that I’ve been talking to my mom more. In the psychology class I’m taking we talked about this theory about the stages of grief. I think my mom has zigzagged through all those stages since I left: denial, anger, depression, bargaining. Sometimes she’d cry and say she couldn’t believe what I’d done to her, and then other times she’d yell and act really mad or try to make some kind of deal with me so I’d go back. Now, though, it’s like she’s finally figured out that I’m really gone, which I guess is the last stage, acceptance. The last time we talked, she said, “You know, I was the same way when I was a teenager. My mama couldn’t tell me nothing. I guess you’ve got to live your own life.” I said yes and that she had to live hers too. After that it was like we’d made some kind of peace. And then we started talking about the baby, which is due in April. She had an ultrasound and found out it’s a boy. She says she’s going to name him (wait for it) Sonny, because apparently it’s a rule that in my family everybody has to have an “s” name. For the record, I think it’s really unoriginal to name your son Sonny—kind of like naming your cat “kitty.” But I’m getting to be okay with the idea of having a baby brother, as long as I don’t have to raise him.