eighth grade, november
"So, who can tell me what a catalyst is?"
I'm struggling to stay awake in Mr. Sherman's science class, my first-period class. I couldn't care less about science, but this question interests me. I want to answer "Glen" to Mr. Sherman's inquiry, except I don't talk in class and that's not the right answer. It's been a year since I first approached Glen, but I'm still on the fringes. I'm his dealer, not his girlfriend. Yet I still dream that he can be my catalyst; he can be the one that changes my life.
Mr. Sherman looks around the room. It's November, and he still doesn't know any of our names, except for Seth Lewis, whom he can't abide. He's this weird new kid in school this year that nobody seems to like. I've seen him already a couple of times this year in detention: me for being late to school, him for using "inappropriate language" in class. I have two classes with him: this science class and music, which is a required class. In music, he's totally clueless and clumsy. I'm not much better, as I'm trying to learn to play the flute, but it doesn't come easy, since we can't afford to buy one, nor is there any quiet place to practice. About the only thing I want more than Glen's affection is quiet in my life: a silent house and a still mind.
A couple of front-row students jerk their hands up, then pump them in rapid motion to answer Mr. Sherman. Glen's arm moves into the air gracefully, like he was releasing a balloon to let it fly free into the sky. I admire how calm he is when talking or moving in front of others.
"I know!" I hear Seth Lewis, who sits next to me in the row nearest the door. I know better than to sit at the front, but also not in the back. The back's where the troublemakers sit, and that means attention. It's safer to be on the outside edge of class. It's much easier to be near the door, in case I need to make a quick exit to the bathroom or to head toward the office to deal with my "tardiness issue," as the school counselor calls it. It's much simpler because I never have to walk in front of any of the other students. It also makes the most sense, as I arrive late for first period most Mondays and Thursdays. On the edge, that's where I belong.
"Why don't you tell us, Mr. Thompson," Mr. Sherman says, pointing at Glen. I strain my ears along with my eyes to listen and watch as Glen starts to answer.
"A catalyst is—" Glen starts.
But Seth Lewis shouts over him. "The Cat A list shows where to find the best pussy!" There's some laughter, but Mr. Sherman doesn't crack a smile, not that he ever has in his life.
"Shut up!" Glen snaps, angry at Seth for stealing his spotlight.
"I mean best pussycats," Seth says, trying to avoid detention. "Get it? Cat-A-list."
Mr. Sherman frowns at Seth, but does nothing else. Instead, he goes back to talking, then explaining what he's talking about. He drones on; I start to doze off.
"Hey, Christy, take this," Seth whispers to me. He's got something in his hand.
I'm startled that he knows my name and shocked that he wants to talk with me. Note passing is something the cool kids in the center do, not us exiles on the edge of class.
"Take it," he repeats. I grab the folded piece of paper from him, successfully not touching his freckled skin. He's wearing torn blue jeans and a red sweatshirt, which barely fit him. I open up the top fold, and there's a badly drawn picture of a flute. Written underneath is the question: "What did the flute say to Christy?" I unfold the bottom part of paper, then hear Seth laugh loud enough for only us to hear as I read an answer a lot like the sound of Mr. Sherman scraping the chalk across the blackboard. It says: "Blow me."
8
november 14, senior year
"Got me figured out yet?"
I raise my eyes, looking away from the colorful romance paperbacks on the gray cart to see Terrell standing before me. Last week, he waved, but didn't say a word. This afternoon, he's back around, if not in, my face. I can't imagine what he wants or what game he's playing.
"My college major?" he says, then inches closer, but my mouth, like my feet, seems frozen under his warm, inviting smile. "I just wondered if you thought about it."
I'd like to tell him the truth: I'd thought, much to my surprise, a lot about his hanging question and his lingering touch, even if I deny it to Anne. I'd like to tell him that I've thought about him like I've thought about nobody else but Glen. I'd like to tell him that I think I might like him. But, I swallow the words, chew on my bottom lip, and let him fill the silence.
"So how's school?" he asks, but unlike me, I think he really wants to know the answer and isn't asking questions to deflect attention. I wonder now if last weekend was an unstated test. Maybe I was supposed to speak to him. I don't know the rules of romance. Even if I did, one almost imaginary and always unattainable lover like Glen is enough for my untried heart to handle.
"Okay, I guess." I don't want to give anything away since I haven't a clue why Terrell is asking me questions or paying attention to me. For the past two weeks he'll come around, talk at me for a while, then go on his way. I've got no experience talking with boys and I'm not sure I want to learn. Maybe he just wants to get out of doing his work, although I'm making him work hard to know anything about me. I look away and back down at the safe softcovers of romance fiction, then speak. "How about with you?"
He rubs his forehead, trying to scratch out an answer. Terrell's really verbal when he's talking at someone, I notice, but not as good when talking with someone. I'm not good at talking with people either, but I did learn two things in the past two weeks about Terrell from a coworker who goes to Summit: he's not rich and he doesn't have a girlfriend. Finally, he answers. "I'm alphabet boy. I got an A in two classes, B in two, and two Cs kicking my ass."
I frown, wondering how he plans to get into Oberlin or Kenyon with grades like that. Even with worse grades than me, he's going to land at a better school than I will, if I even get to college.
"How the hell do you get a C in photography?" he asks himself for my benefit.
"You like taking pictures, don't you?" the world's most camera-shy girl asks in terror.
"All the time," he says. "Maybe I could take your picture sometime?"
I shake my head, tiny little shakes, like I don't want him really to see. He'd need to promise any picture wouldn't land in my school yearbook. I've always managed to be sick on picture day, and I don't have any club or team photos. I don't want anyone to know that I ever went to Flint Southwestern or I even existed.
"You wanna see some of my photos?" Terrell finally says after looking through his backpack. Before I have a chance to answer, he shows off his camera. This one's not a small digital or a bright, shiny new one like Anne has; it's very old school. It leads me to believe that while Terrell may go to Summit, he doesn't belong there. The long, wild, untamed curly brown hair, the black System of a Down T-shirt, and those silver earrings shout out that he's someone who'd rather stand out than fit in anywhere.
He puts the camera back in the bag, then pulls out a binder. "Do you think this deserves a C?" he asks while opening up a photo album. The photos are black and white, each fills a half page in the gray binder. As I flip through the pages, I notice there are no people in any of the pictures. Yet, I can feel the phantom sadness of the faces who once lived in these forlorn places that Terrell has captured. The photos are of garbage-filled vacant lots, cold concrete walls painted with graffiti, buildings with broken windows, ruins of torn-down factories, and burned-out shells of houses. "My teacher said the photos were too depressing. What do you think?"
Before I can answer, I stare at the final page, puzzled by the last photo.
"You like it?" Terrell asks, his voice shaking with doubt. "It's the title photo."
"It's wonderful," I respond, touching the page. Other than filling the entire page, the photo isn't that much different. It's a black-and-white picture of a business with a hand-painted "4-Sale" notice in a broken glass front window, empty pop cans and beer bottles littering the cracked sidewalk, and the big tilted sign saying "Beauty Supplies" occupying most of the phot
o.
"My photography teacher didn't get what the project title means: 'beauty supplies,'" he says, softly now, like he's sharing a secret. "Christy, you understand what I'm saying, don't you?"
I think of all the times in school that I've known the answer to a teacher's question, but didn't speak so as not to draw attention. I've known the answer but held back, believing if Glen thought I was too smart, he wouldn't like me. I've known the answer, but swallowed it so I could remain just another poor white-trash girl passing through Flint Southwestern on the road to nowhere. But now I need and want a right answer to prove I'm not as dumb as I pretend to be.
When I don't respond right away, he comes to my rescue. "Beauty supplies! The photos show there is beauty in anything, even if you can't see it on the surface. Beauty supplies itself to all of us in different ways. It is up to us to find it. You get it, I get it, but my teacher, no."
"Where is this place?" I ask because the state of beauty isn't on the map of my life.
"North end, up off Stewart Ave., by my old house," Terrell says, his voice trailing off.
I leaf again through the notebook, wondering what else of his past is between the pages. I feel him staring at me as I stare at his work. We don't speak, and the silence is wonderful.
"Don't the two of you have work to do?" I hear one of the library people yell at us from a distance. I snap to attention, scared to death of losing this job. Terrell shoots me a guilty smile, then closes the notebook. He puts it back in his bag. Looking at his small yet crowded backpack, I know that he can teach me more than anyone, except maybe for Ms. Chapman.
"You know what interests me most about all these photos," he whispers.
"What?" I respond, and I wonder if he can tell that I'm interested in anything he says.
"I wonder how these places got like that," he says, readjusting his glasses. "How did these houses get abandoned? What happened to these people? What's the backstory?"
"Chasing tail lights," I whisper aloud, then push the book cart away from Terrell.
"What did you say?" Terrell asks, but I'm not ready to reveal myself to him. Yet.
"I'll tell you next time, Terrell," I say, safely moving away so I can't see the response, or maybe the rejection, in his eyes.
"Next time!" Terrell shouts, then laughs, and I actually smile. Not the usual Christy mouth-covering grin but instead, I smile wide and bright. I can still hear his laughter as I leave the back room. Looking at his photos and the person who took them, I understand that even in the ugliest parts of our lives, there's a reason to believe. And now I believe that beauty supplies.
eighth grade, november
"Put your fucking hands where we can fucking see them and come out of the house!"
For once, it is not the smell that wakes me in the middle of the night, nor is it my nightmare scream. It is real life and the flashing lights in front of the house. The lights flash in time, while the yelling voice seems to stop clocks. "Robert Mallory, we have a warrant for your arrest Come out of the house now." I leap out of bed and look out the window. Behind the house are two men, pistols drawn, pointing toward the back door. I pull the curtain shut so fast, that it falls off the rod. There's a commotion outside, but the yelling in the front room distracts me. I can't make out the words, but the voices are clear: it is Mama and Robert yelling.
"Come out of the house now!" the voice seems to be coming through a microphone or maybe a megaphone. I crack open my door, but Mama shouts at me. Before I slam it shut, I yell out Mitchell's name, then run toward Bree's bed. She's asleep, beautiful and oblivious to the ugliness around her. She's seven, but she's lived enough to be seventeen. As the police yell louder, I wonder if her father will be alive for her next birthday and why he ran home, not away.
"Breezy, wake up, "Isay, shaking her bed, but trying not to scare her. I've got enough terror for the two of us. "Come on, right now, you need to come with me."
She puts her arms up, and I scoop her against my chest. I grab the Shrek-covered pillow from her bed, then wrap it around her ears so she can be deaf to the chaos around us. She's pressed up against me. I have one hand on the closet door, the safest place I think we can be in the house in case the bullets start flying, when a burst of light shoots through the darkness.
I cringe, but it's Robert stepping into the room. He kisses Bree, then whispers to me: "Protect her, Christy. "He hugs me, maybe for the first time ever, then kisses his daughter maybe for the last. As we hide in the closet, Robert walks tall toward the front door and his fate.
9
november 21, senior year
"Who's the Chitt?"
Mitchell's face is a triangle of surprise, shock, and shame jammed into his small brown eyes. He's silent, so our big, old, and mostly empty house fills with Ryan's laughter. I'm lying on the couch in the living room reading a novel, trying to block out the reality around me. I have no idea what's going on, but from the look on Mitchell's face coupled with the smirk of satisfaction on Ryan's, I know it's harsh, and there's nothing I can do to protect Mitchell.
"I said who's the Chill?" Ryan can barely speak he's laughing so loud. He's got a blue spiral notebook in his right hand. He's waving it in the air like some TV lawyer holding up evidence, although he's dressed more like a hood defendant than a defense attorney.
"That's mine," Mitchell finally says, his voice defeated and tired. He's in his grease-stained RFC uniform, and the strain, pain, and subtle shame of his eight-hour Saturday shift shows on his face. He barely got his coat off before Ryan attacked.
"Not anymore, Chill," Ryan shouts at him from across the room. Ryan's sitting at the kitchen table shoveling down Halo burgers before he hits his Saturday night demon streets.
Mitchell's just standing there like a sad statue recently visited by birds. I've seen the blue notebook in Mitchell's room a couple of times, but never opened it. The fact that I found it when changing the sheets, because it was tucked under the mattress, along with some Maxim magazines, let me know it was out of bounds, but borders mean nothing to Ryan.
"Hey, little girl, didn't you know your brother's stage name is the Chill?" Ryan bellows at me, trying to draw me in when I'd rather be out of the picture entirely.
"You . . . ," Mitchell starts, but he swallows the words. Unable to speak. A statue.
Ryan tosses the food wrappers toward the trash, but misses. As the garbage smacks onto the floor, Mitchell makes a sound very familiar to me: a whimper of hurt and humiliation.
"Seems Mitchell's going to be the next Eminem or some shit," Ryan says, leaving the garbage on the kitchen floor, then taking center stage in the living room. "It's all right here."
I finally close my book and open my mouth, for what it is worth, to speak unfamiliar words. "Ryan, please, enough."
As usual, and expected, pleading and pleasing don't work, but then again, nothing does. When Ryan decides to be this way, the best thing to do is take it, turn your body off, let your brain find a safe place, and realize that even nightmares don't last all night.
Ryan opens up the notebook, while I can see Mitchell's spirit shut down. "Seems his first CD is going to be called The Chill Effect" Ryan says, showing me one of the pages. He's shoving it right into my face, and like a witness to a car wreck on the interstate, I can't manage to look away.
I take a quick glance at the page filled with Mitchell's handwriting. He's Scotch-taped his school class picture to it and written "The Chill" over the top of it. Below that is a badly drawn outline of the familiar mitten shape of Michigan, with the words "The Chill Effect" written in the middle in big bold letters. The image is in the middle of a square, so it looks like a CD cover. Next to the cover is a list of songs; the titles are all pretty lame. Below that is a list called "Chill's posse," which reads like a who's who of hip-hop. Below that is a quote from The Source calling Mitchell "the Chill" Mallory the next big thing. I take in the whole thing in just a few seconds, but it must seem like hours to Mitchell as his fantasy life gets revea
led and ridiculed.
"Look, he's even got all these lame-ass rhymes," Ryan says, pulling the notebook away, then quickly thumbing through it. I avoid looking at Mitchell, but I can imagine all too well what's going on in his head and his heart. "Why don't you kick one out, Chill!"
Ryan laughs, louder still, then throws the notebook on the floor, like garbage. I gather my book to get away, but Ryan's hand clutches my shoulder, forcing me down. I bite into my bottom lip, creating a pain I can manage, and ignore the jabbing of his fingernails into my flesh.
Mitchell finally moves away from the door to retrieve the notebook. As he picks it up, he doesn't look like this smart college-bound kid who will do anything not to end up behind bars like Robert. Instead, he looks like a tiny, defenseless child whose favorite toy was destroyed.
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