Chasing Tail Lights

by Patrick Jones

  Before I can speak, Tommy turns into Mr. Manners. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Williams." He flashes his best smile, piles on all the charm he can summon, and fixes his eyes on her. If she wasn't wearing gloves, it looks like he'd be ready to kiss her hand.

  "This is my cousin Tommy," I say, trying not to giggle at what I sense are some serious vibes jumping between these two people.

  "My pleasure," he says with total confidence in his voice, the same kind of confidence that Anne seems to have. Tommy heads back toward the car to join Aunt Dee, Mitchell, and Bree for church, but looking at the almost glaze in Anne's eyes, it looks like she's found her savior this Sunday morning. As Anne pulls away, Tommy keeps our attention with an oversized wave filling the rearview mirror. Watching my house disappear from Anne's rearview mirror is always the sweetest sight of any day.

  before seventh grade, august

  "Can I come live with you?"

  "What's wrong, Christy?" Aunt Dee asks.

  "Everything." Since Daddy died, everything is wrong. The house is filled with nothing but sadness and chaos. The sadness mainly from Mitchell and me; the chaos courtesy of Ryan. Robert's not around enough, since he comes, goes, and does as he pleases. Daddy couldn't control him, having a child didn't change him, and Mama doesn't even try. With Daddy gone, Mama's not just ignoring me—it's almost like she's punishing me for having been Daddy's littlegirl.

  "I'm sorry, but I've got my hands full," Aunt Dee says, pointing across the park toward her son, Tommy. Tommy, Robert, Ryan, and a bunch of other male cousins are playing basketball. Mitchell's on the sidelines, watching Tommy's every move. Everybody's on the skins team. We're out at Kearsley Park on a baking-hot August day for the annual family reunion on Daddy's side.

  "Okay," I say, accepting her answer and my fate, just that simply.

  "Iknowyou miss your daddy," Aunt Dee says, wiping the sweat from her brow. She's in her Sunday best, even at a party. She reaches across the table toward me, but I pull back.

  "This is so crazy, "Isay, shaking my super-short-haired head in slow disbelief. It's weird to think that everybody's laughing, listening to music, eating, yelling, and drinking, like nothing happened. Like Daddy's still alive. Like everything was still the same.

  "What's that?" Aunt Dee asks.

  "Just how everybody's having a good time," I say, unable to join in, but that's something I'm growing used to more every day it seems. Next year at school, Ijust want to figureout how to go from class to class without being noticed, spoken to, or bothered. Or touched.

  "I know it's hard," Aunt Dee says, her voice gentle and soothing.

  "Why couldn't Ryan come live with you or somebody else?" I ask. Robert couldn't care less about Ryan, other than using him to sell shit and run his errands. The only thing Robert seems to care about is his daughter, Bree. If Ryan was out of the house, I think everything would be okay.

  "That's complicated," Aunt Dee replies.

  "But..., "I start, then stop. I'd like to tell Aunt Dee more, but to talk about it makes it real, to deny it means nothing is really happening. It's like I have an imaginary enemy.

  "Christy, I don't know. Your mama doesn't talk with me much, you know that?"

  "I know," I say, looking away, embarrassed. Aunt Dee made something of herself, while Mama just makes it through every day for herself. Everybody knows Dee's son, Tommy, is going to college someday; everybody knows that Robert's going to prison or to an early grave. Everybody knows these things, but nobody talks about them.

  "You know how I invite your mama to church all the time," Aunt Dee says.

  I shake my head. Every Wednesday and Sunday, whenever she's in town, Aunt Dee comes by the house to take any of us to church. Daddy never went, but he did insist that all of us go. Mama talks about Jesus a lot, but she never seems to have time for him either.

  "I know that Ryan's father wasn't a very nice man to your mother or to Ryan, so maybe your mother feels guilty about that," Aunt Dee says.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, looking over my shoulder for Mama. I know I'll catch hell if she catches me talking to Aunt Dee like this. To Mama, Aunt Dee isn't real family.

  "I don't mean to be uncharitable, but your mother hasn't led a very Christian life, so maybe loving Ryan unconditionally is her way of returning to God's good graces," Aunt Dee says. I don't say anything. Instead, I look over my shoulder again. Mama's sitting with a group of women smoking, drinking, and playing cards. She takes a break every now and again to fuss over Bree, like I can't imagine she ever fussed over me. Love in my family skipped a generation.

  "Christy, just believe in God, and everything will be all right," Aunt Dee says, then crosses herself. To her, every day is a blessed day. To me, every day has become a cursed one.

  "But it's not all right," I mumble.

  Aunt Dee doesn't say anything, and I know there's nothing else to say. She's found her savior; I've yet to find mine.

  "Come on, let's go see Breezy girl," Aunt Dee finally says, and we both get up from the table. We walk by the basketball court, walk by Robert's tattooed body, walk by Tommy's winning smile, and walk by Ryan's losing leer. We walk by all of those things over toward where Mama is sitting. And when I see Mama, I know there's nothing to say or do. And I know when I look at her, I will see the scariest sight of all: myself in twenty years.

  12

  afternoon, november 30,

  senior year

  "Let's just chase some tail tights for a while, okay?"

  "And pass up the mall the weekend after Thanksgiving?" Anne says sarcastically.

  We've just finished a fast-food breakfast, which Anne generously paid for, and have climbed back in the car. The mall means Genesee Valley, Flint's oldest and biggest mall. Maybe because I've never gone there a lot except with Anne, I've never felt comfortable there. There are lots of places in Flint like that, like this morning at breakfast at the Miller Road McDonald's. I have to sit in a booth; I just hate sitting at a table in the center where everyone can look at us.

  "Pick a truck," Anne says, as we pull back out onto Miller Road.

  I nod, but pickings are slim for this time Sunday morning. After a bit, I spot one with Texas plates turning onto the entrance ramp to 1-69 West. "Chase him!"

  Anne quickly cuts across a lane of traffic, almost killing us both. She's a terrible driver, but she's better than I am, since my only real solo driving experience almost ended in arrest.

  "You wanna get high?" Anne says, steering with one hand, opening her purse with the other, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the Texas plate in front of us. I don't like when Anne smokes and steers.

  "No, I don't need to." I wave her off.

  She laughs, that deep, rich, laugh. "I don't need to either. I asked if you wanted to.

  "Do you know why I like to get high?" Anne asks. Before I can answer, which would be to guess it's for the same reasons I do, she starts in. "Because it feels good!"

  "Sure, but—" I counter.

  "No but, even though I got plenty of butt," Anne jokes. She seems as comfortable in her body as I am uncomfortable in mine.

  "You're right, it is a great escape and—"

  "That's not it at all," she says. "For me, it's not an escape, crutch, or any of that other DARE crap they taught us in school or the scary stuff that my dad always says when he launches into one of his endless antidrug lectures."

  "What do you mean?" I love to hear Anne talk: she's so passionate about stuff.

  "Face it, for lots of things, there's just no reason to do it other than it feels good," Anne says in full argument mode. She'd make just as good a lawyer as she would a doctor, I bet. "It doesn't hurt anybody and makes your own body feel good. It's kind of like sex, I guess."

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wondering when we'll see a rest stop.

  "You know you never answered me about that?" Anne reminds me.

  "About?" I reply, but I know.

  "Are you still a virgin?" She waits, giving me plenty o
f time to finally answer the question, which, of course, I won't. We'll talk about boys and crushes, but I don't want to talk about what happens next. Instead, I just stare ahead as our Texas trucker picks up speed.

  "It's okay if you don't want to answer," she says as a batch of heavy gray November Michigan clouds appear. "You know what I'm talking about. About sex stuff feeling good."

  I turn away even from the truck, stare out the side window, and shut my eyes. Anne's not only the one who always steers the car, she's always the one steering the conversation.

  "Don't you even, you know," Anne says, quickly taking another hit.

  "What?" I reply, giving in.

  "Well, it's something you do when you are alone," Anne says, raising her eyebrow while I shift my embarrassed body uncomfortably in the seat. "Christy, don't you, you know?"

  I avoid the question by closing my eyes and my mouth.

  The conversation stalls as the speed of the truck in front increases once we get out of Flint. Tired of waiting for my answer, Anne clicks on the radio, and I start to drift off to a relaxed sleep. With the background noise of some thrash band filling my ears, my mind fills with the clashing sounds of a thousand thoughts slamming against each other.

  "Welcome to Lansing!" Anne shouts, giving me a light poke.

  I look at the clock on the dash; I've been asleep for about an hour. I'm feeling refreshed, since I rarely sleep peacefully at home. Mostly, I rely on short naps at school to keep me sane.

  "You ever been to Lansing before?" Anne asks.

  I wipe the sleep out of my eyes. "Never," I say. Except for school field trips and a funeral in Ohio, I've never been out of Flint, except to visit Robert in Jackson.

  "My uncle lives here. He's a chemistry professor at Michigan State," she says as we start to exit off the expressway. "I said good-bye to Mr. Texas a few miles back. Sorry."

  "It's okay," I say.

  "We're going to this upscale Meridian Mall, to get you something nice," Anne says.

  "Thanks, doctor," I almost whisper. There's a New Year's Eve party at Rani's for all the theater students that Glen invited us to. I want to wear something other than some ill-fitting dress purchased at the Salvation Army, which never seems to have anything in my awkward size. Anne insisted on buying me a nice dress as an early Christmas present. I'm thinking about making her a homemade collage with photos of famous people so it looks like they are talking to Anne in her senior picture. I would put myself in the collage, but senior pictures are something else I can't afford and really don't even want.

  "What are friends for?" Anne asks, and I don't have an answer for that query either.

  "You don't really need to buy me a present," I say, but not protesting too loudly.

  Anne pauses for a second, sprays the car with an overwhelming pine-scented air freshener, then cracks open the window. "Okay, then, I won't buy you anything. Instead, why don't you sell me something and then we'll be even."

  "You bought it already," I say, pointing to the ashtray we've yet to empty.

  "No, I had something else in mind," she says, pulling her hat over her eyes.

  "Okay, what do you want to buy?"

  "Your cousin Tommy's phone number," she says with a laugh, then gets out the car.

  The Meridian Mall is packed with shoppers going to stores I've never been to, like Aeropostale and Hollister Co. It's a little overwhelming, since I hate big crowds, but also interesting to see all the different faces, even if most of the girls look like Bar­bies. We don't have a lot of time. Anne needs to get home to work tonight. Since we have probably an hour drive in front of us, it seems this trip was mostly about the driving, not the destination.

  "Look at that dress!" Anne says, pointing to a simple, elegant yet sexy white dress in the window at Victoria's Secret. It can't fit me, since it is the anti-Christy: I'm complex, ungraceful, and blue most of the time. I feel out of place in the store: everybody dresses like a model and comes from money; I look lost in my long black Tupac T-shirt covering my black big-pocket pants, while Anne's not quite nerdy, not quite Goth trendy style fits right in. She insists, so we barge into Victoria's Secret, like wild women on a mission. "That's for you!" she shouts.

  I look at the dress's plunging neckline and shake my head furiously. "That's your style."

  "I might buy one for myself as well, but not as a dress," Anne says.

  "Then what?" I ask, wondering if Anne knows how uncomfortable I feel right now.

  She reaches into her purse and quickly pulls out her Visa card. "A weapon!"

  "A what?" I reply, adjusting my ears from the din of the mall noise to the pounding techno soundtrack of the trendy shopping experience.

  "If I wore this dress in front of my boss, I think he'd have a heart attack from all the blood rushing from his body to—"

  "Got it," I shoot back.

  "I've got to do something. We've got all these holiday parties, and I just can't take my boss hovering around me and making these sly little sexual comments. It's so strange."

  "Maybe we should switch jobs," I offer weakly. Then I could save Anne from the leers of her lecherous boss, and she could save me from Terrell's attention, followed by his eventual rejection.

  "Maybe," Anne says as we cruise around the store jammed with holiday shoppers. Every time I see a couple holding hands, I'm envious.

  "Can I help you?" this way-too-thin college-age girl asks almost the second Anne takes one small step away. I just shake my head, and start looking for the dress in the window.

  "I'm going to look at some lingerie; be right back," Anne shouts as she walks away.

  "Can I help you find something?" another clerk asks; she looks a lot like the other one.

  "I'm fine," I say again, unaccustomed to so much attention. About the only store Mama and I ever shop at that sells new stuff is K-Mart, where nobody helps you.

  "Are you finding what you need?" This one is a little older with jet-black-dyed hair, and her name tag says manager. Her manner also tells me she's in charge.

  "No, I'm just looking," I reply. I don't know why, but I hate asking for help. In almost every part of my life I'm so dependent upon others that anything I can do for myself, I will.

  I finally spy the rack with the dress in the window and start toward it.

  "Find what you needed yet?" It's the first girl, the stick figure with skin. She's standing right next to me as I pick through the dresses, vainly trying to find one in my odd body size.

  "I think I found it," I say with pride, but I see there's a couple of dresses on the same rack I want to try. So unaccustomed to buying new clothes or even having the chance to shop in a nice store like this, I decide to take advantage of the opportunity and pick up a couple of different styles and sizes. I'm undecided about how much of my athletic legs and how little of my anemic cleavage to show to get Glen's attention at the party. I pick six dresses, and walk toward the back, no doubt with a goofy grin on my face.

  "I'm sorry, you can only have two items in the dressing room," the manager says, holding out her hands to me. "You'll need to put four of those back."

  I'm just about ready to respond, when I suddenly take it all in. I look around the store and it is filled with other people shopping, but none of the clerks are asking them if they need help.

  No one is talking to Anne. Other people—all college girls in hundred-dollar dresses or high schools girls wearing pearls with cashmere sweaters—are going into the dressing room with five or six articles of clothing. I see this big white sign with small black letters asking people to limit the number of items in the dressing room to five. Not two, but five. I turn around and look behind me to see the manager staring at me, not like I was a person, but like I was garbage. Like I was trash. Poor white trash. I toss the dresses on the floor, then I run like the track star I know Ms. Chapman believes I can be. I race from the store crying and knowing no matter how fast I run, I can't accelerate time to turn myself instantly from an ugly moth to a beautiful butter
fly.

  "What's wrong?" Anne says gently when we meet up outside a few minutes later. I'm drying my eyes and leaning up against the window of the passenger side of her mom's car. SUVs, Hummers, and other cars circle the parking lot, shoppers walking by with bags in one hand, cell phones in the other. All around me is the wealth of the world. And inside me is a wasteland.

  "I hate this," I say, then look down at my tattoo, wishing I could get free from being me.

  Anne opens the door for me, and I crawl inside. Before she can even start the car, I've lit up our last joint. I inhale deeply and let the dope drown me. "Are you okay?" she asks.

  "No, I'm not okay, Anne," I shout at her. "Did you see what happened?"

  Anne shakes her head, but it doesn't open her eyes at all.

  "Never mind," I say, the anger burning away with the rolling paper and weed.

  "They said you left without buying anything, so . . . ," Anne says, and it's then I notice she's holding a Victoria's Secret bag.

  "Thanks, Dr. Williams," I say, hating myself for taking the bag, but happy for a friend like her. I wish I was like Anne and able to stand up for myself rather than need her support.

  "Well, maybe you can put in a word for me with your cousin, you think?" Anne says, then smiles. I offer her the joint, but she waves it away.

  "I think," I say, then pull the dope again into my lungs. I'm smoking green, and it makes perfect sense as I'm green with envy. If Anne hooks up with Tommy, then I'll never see her. I'll be friendless again, but it will be worse because she'll be in love and I'll be alone.