"Now what?" Anne says, as we start out of the parking lot.
"If not now, then when," I mutter, half hoping she won't hear me.
"Glen?" she asks, and I nod. I look again at my ankle, then look at my sad green eyes in the car's mirror. I think about all the beautiful girls in the store and the pain it causes. Pain I must give a name and a shape and a place. "Anne, do you mind getting to work a little late?"
"Not really," Anne says, then shrugs.
"Do you remember where that tattoo place was?" I ask, as calm as terror can sound.
"I think so, why?" Anne says, trying not to laugh.
I take a deep hit from the joint and feel the lack of fear and hurt and life float through my body. "If I'm going to be treated like a freak, I might as well look like one."
"Are you sure?" Anne says, so unaccustomed to my taking the first step.
"Bring on the pain," I say, then rub my hands along the virgin flesh of my ears and nose. I stick out my also virgin tongue, capturing my reflection in the side mirror. I'm sucking in this last image of this version of myself before I dance on its grave.
sophomore year, december
"So what did you think of the book?"
I'm sitting in the unfamiliar desk in front of the class clutching Ms. Chapman's copy of Speak, trying to keep tears from falling from my green-and-white ovals. In exchange for taking a grade demotion, she let me do my oral report after school for an audience of one.
"Christy, come on now, tell me what you thought of the book," she prods me again, but the words remain buried in my throat. I hold my notes in my hand, clutching them like life itself.
"Can't I just hand this in," I ask, in the smallest voice I can imagine, offering up my handwritten notes and hoping she's not noticing that my hand in shaking.
"No, this is an oral report, so..." she leans back in her chair, and I watch her mouth: frown, smile, or whatever expression she flashes my way, it's like a traffic signal.
"I don't want to disappoint you, "I say, waiting for ago sign, but I'm shut down.
She shakes her head, then stares right at me. "That's playing to lose, Christy."
"What?"
'"Ifyou want to please me, that's one thing," she offers, not knowing how true that is. I'm not sure why, but since day one in her class I've wanted her approval. Even if I've continued my invisible woman impression, I've fought the urge to sleep almost every morning. "That means you want something, but ifyou don't want to disappoint me, well that's something else."
I bite my bottom lip until it bleeds. She hands me a tissue. "Sorry," I whisper.
"My blood type is 'be positive', " she says, then smiles. "Now, let's talk about the book."
"I liked it, but it's hard to explain," I finally offer, moving down in my chair.
"What did you like about it?" she asks, and my eyes dart back to floor.
I look down at my notes, the product of my hand talking to my head. I feel the pressure in my chest, my heart coming alive. I bite again on my bottom lip, but my mouth won't open.
"What did you think of the main character?" she says, causing more pain as my mouth fights to form words. What can I say about Melinda, the girl in Speak? A girl suffering in silent sadness? A girl shunned by her classmates? A girl without friends and without much of a family to support her? What do I think about a girl who has been a victim? What do I think? I don't think and I won't feel. I so badly want to answer, but I can't bridge the gap between what I want to say and what I need to swallow.
"Christy, I'm willing to meet you halfway, but you have to give me something; if not, then I have no choice but to give you an F on this assignment," she says.
"Whateveryou want to do,"Isay, able to breathe again as I try to hide in plain sight.
"No, Christy, I don't have a choice, but you do," she says. "It is what you want."
I finally start to talk, and it's a familiar feeling. I hear myself saying these words, talking about this book like it was any other book, when it's not, and I wonder if Ms. Chapman knows that. I suspect she knows more than that, so I make sure that I tell her nothing. After I finish, I hand her my notes, then sit down, exhausted from the effort.
"Pretty good, but you can do better," she says, handing me another book. I look at the tattered paperback of Dreamland by somebody named Sarah Dessen. I read the description, then sink back into my seat even more. "Christy, sit up straight and—"
"And?" I say and she lets the words hang free, like a life saver or maybe a noose.
"Walk tall," she finally says, then hands me back my notes. Written at the top is more than a grade. Written at the top of the paper is this: "B positive."
13
december 6, senior year
"You took tired, Mama."
As I get a few steps into the house, I realize the floor isn't shaking from the booming noise from Ryan's basement room but the windows are rattling from the blaring TV Mama's plopped down on the broken-down coach, towels covering the many holes, and watching TV with her eyes closed. I wonder if one of the reasons everybody in my house always sounds like they're yelling is because we compete with the noise of all these loud reality TV shows. I mumble my words to her, but she doesn't wake up, just like she doesn't hear footsteps at night.
I'm waiting for her to shout at me: "Surprise," but the words don't come. Balloons don't come pouring from the ceiling, friends don't come charging from hidden spaces, and there's no cake with eighteen candles on the table. My eighteenth birthday vanishes like all the others, just another day in my life unnoticed by most. Anne has bought me an iPod, sort of. After her most recent fight with her father about her job but also explaining to him who Tommy was, her mother made the peace by buying Anne another piece of electronics, which she then gave to me. A used gift from Anne is more than I got at home.
I head to my room to start on my English homework. Breezy is reading a book, body buried under a blanket, and her ears buried under headphones. Even in my room, the TV blares, so I also put on my old twisted black headphones to test out the new-to-me white iPod.
The headphones hurt pressed against the four piercings and small mock-silver studs lining each of my ears. My ears still hurt, but more from my mother's reaction to me when I came home with my new look. She didn't yell about the holes in my ears or the silver stud in my nose; she just laughed at me. I didn't open my mouth, so she has yet to see the tongue stud. I just let her reaction bounce off of me, or better still, slide over my now black hair with only a streak of red remaining. Mitchell told me I looked "cool" while Ryan just sneered with icy contempt at my trying to change something. Most of the kids at school turned, looked once, and then looked past me, like they've done for three years. Seth said I looked like a freak, while Glen said nothing at all, which hurts the very worst. I wonder if Terrell at work will notice when I see him tomorrow.
I get up from the desk—the English assignment is a pretty easy one about vocabulary—and look in my mostly bare closet. My stacks of jeans and T-shirts lay on the floor, while a few sweatshirts join the dress Anne bought me at the mall. I wonder if there'll ever be a day when I'll need to buy hangers for a closet, when I'll have nice things, and when I'll just stop wanting.
I hold the dress up against me, imagining what it will look like. There's no mirror in the room, which Breezy hates, but there are some things you don't want to see reflected in glass. As the soft fabric tickles my skin, I think about Glen touching and holding me. I try to think about more, but those thoughts won't come. I need to stop wanting; I need to plan to stop dreaming.
"Get the phone!" I hear my mother shout from outside the door, then she coughs loudly.
I put the dress back in the closet, then take my headphones off and head toward the kitchen. There's no phone in my room, the reasons Mama prohibited it lost, like this birthday, into the fog of history.
"Hello?" I answer, picking up the receiver Mama has left lying face up on a kitchen counter. Whoever is on the other end got their screa
m-and-shout-TV quota filled.
"Happy birthday eighteen times," the male voice says on the other end of the phone. I press the phone closer. The earrings dig into my flesh, but my tongue's weighted down with doubt; I'm too embarrassed to admit I don't know who's speaking. "Christy, is that you?" the voice asks.
I mumble some nonresponsive noncommitted sound.
"It's your birthday right?" the voice says, overflowing with excitement.
Another mumble from me. Rocks in my mouth and in my head.
"Well, since I wasn't working today, I didn't get a chance, so." I laugh, smile, and almost cry in a single sound. "Hi, Terrell." He's silent now, embarrassed for both of us that it took me so long to figure out his voice.
"How did you know?" I ask. Other than Terrell, I hardly talk to anyone at work. I come in, shelve my books, dream my dreams, and come out with my life untouched. I'm also curious about how he got my phone number; I'm even more curious about why he's calling me.
"Can I trust you?" Terrell asks.
No words again, just my laugh, smile, and cry sound, which he takes as a green light.
"I was looking up your phone number in the computer a few days ago, and I noticed your birthday, so I just thought I would call." He sounds different over the phone: less sure of himself and his words. He doesn't sound like Glen; he sounds a lot more like me in that way.
"Thanks," I say. I'm trying to listen, ears distracted by the TV; nose disgusted by the smell of Mom lighting up a smoke in the other room.
"So, what did you do to celebrate?"
Even over the phone, I notice I'm looking at the floor, avoiding eye contact, like some dog that's been hit too much. "Nothing much."
"Really?" He sounds confused, and I realize I must sound pathetic.
"Well, my friends and I will probably do something this weekend," I throw out quickly, wondering if by saying it there's any chance it increases the possibility of it happening.
"Me, I'm going to have a monster party. Why aren't you having a party?" he asks.
"When's your birthday?" I ask, both interested and avoiding further interrogation.
"Don't laugh, okay, promise me," he says, even as he's more laughing than talking.
"Okay," I reply, realizing he's already offered me his trust and his promises.
"It's on Valentine's Day, how lame is that?"
"Does that mean your girlfriend just gets you one gift," I say softly, but he knows what I'm asking. It's his turn to pause. Music, which sounds like old Motown, fills up his end of the phone.
"Well, I just wanted to call, so . . . ," he finally says. His voice sounds strange, yet he doesn't sound like a stranger. Not a friend, yet certainly nothing more. I decide to take a small step.
"Thanks, Terrell, maybe I can call you on your birthday," I almost whisper.
"Maybe you can get me a present," he whispers in reply.
I'm shaking inside because this small step's landed me on unfamiliar ground. "Maybe."
"You know what I want?" I'm straining to hear even the pauses between his words.
"What do you want, Terrell?" Like a leaf lost in the wind my words float to him.
"To take your picture; would you let me do that?"
I want to tell him why there's no mirror in my room, I want to tell him he shouldn't waste his film. I want to tell him the truth, but inside I lie and take another small step. "Sure, Terrell."
"Great, that's great, I'll start thinking about locations," he says. I think I hear him smile.
"I'll start thinking outfits," I say stupidly, ignoring my closet of orphan clothes hangers.
He laughs. "Doesn't really matter either way."
"Why's that?" But as soon as the question exits my brittle lips, the answer enters my mind.
"Because beauty supplies," he says as I mouth the words slowly, softly, smoothly. "You know, Christy, I think that—"
"Get off the damn phone!" Mama shouts from the kitchen door.
"I have to go now," I say slowly, softly, sadly.
"I heard!" Terrell says. "See you soon."
"Now!" I don't even slip in a good-night wish over Mama's now booming voice. I hang up the phone, take a breath, and let the new stud in my mouth be the magnet for all the old rage.
"Mama, what do you want?" I ask stupidly. I know there's nothing Mama needs that I can provide, unless I become a psychic and tell her the numbers or slots to play.
She uses her cigarette to point at the stove, then heads back toward the couch. As I start to heat up the leftover macaroni and cheese she brought home from her job at Harvest Crest, I remember, back when Daddy was alive, how different my mom was: she was funny, always telling stories, just full of life and energy. When Daddy died, that part of my mom died too. Not so much out of grief—I think in some ways I'm the only one in my family who still misses Daddy—but out of what she had to do to survive and raise us kids. She's worked at small factories and other jobs, but has never managed to be anyplace long enough and is always the first to lose her job when hard times come, which come often in Flint. Now, she's breaking her back not on an assembly line, but assembling enough hours between two jobs to pay the bills. It's almost Christmas, and no gifts are present, but that happened when Daddy was alive too.
"Breezy, dinner's almost ready!" I shout. Because Mama is working all the time, I do most of the cooking, cleaning, and laundry in the house even though I have a job too. I'm not so good at the cleaning, so the house is a mess, but we've all just gotten used to it. Cooking is the hardest because I never know how many people are going be around for dinner.
"Thanks, girl," Mama says. Kind words are few and far between, so I settle for any. This is one of those rare days where I actually see Mama, although she's too tired to let me do much more than just see her. She'll eat in front of the TV; finish off her six-pack of Bud then fall asleep with one of those unreal reality shows still booming. She works at Harvest Crest from 7:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. five days a week, getting only Monday and Sunday off. Her other job is working three to four overnight shifts as a home health aide, which is crazy, since with her drinking, smoking, and fifty-plus extra pounds she's packing on her small frame, she's the last person in the world who knows about good health. But the work isn't that hard, just degrading, as she helps this old rich man do everything, including wipe his ass.
"Grammy!" I hear Bree shout in delight as she runs into the room. I'm jealous, because even though I can't see her, I know that Mama's face just lights up, that old smile of hers returning again. For Bree, she'll find the energy to tell a story or let her feel loved; for me, she has only the time to hand off leftovers and make me feel like one. She'll find the energy to cuddle Bree on her lap, which she never did for me unless I was bent over it to get a spanking. She rarely raised her hand to hit any of the boys, especially not Ryan, so she took out her frustrations on my backside. I knew she was afraid of Robert, and I didn't blame her; everybody was, and in some way, still is. Now, he's really got nothing to lose.
"It's ready," I announce as I set the bowls on the table. Along with the leftover mac and cheese, there's two-day-old green beans and white bread from the bakery outlet store. I butter the bread enough so they won't notice it's stale, and I salt and pepper the beans so they actually have some taste. Thank goodness for leftovers; sometimes that's the only food in the house.
"Get your grammy some," Mama instructs Bree, who loads up a plate for Mama, and then a smaller one for herself. Bree takes both of the plates into the living room, while I sit down alone at the table. From the distance and over the clatter, I hear my mama say, "That's a good girl, Bree." I don't know why, but those words always crush me; as if I'm not a good girl, even if I'm doing most of the work in the house. My dinner now tastes bitter, not salty.
I open up my latest Ms. Chapman recommended book, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, to read during dinner, but it's hard to follow: why write letters to God because, like Santa, he doesn't seem to answer. I won't tell Ms. Chapman I wo
n't finish it because she might stop talking to me or recommending books. While I tire of her trying to recruit me for the track team, I'm flattered that somebody wants me for something, other than to be a beast of burden.
After I finish dinner, Bree brings in the dirty plates from the living room. She hands me the dishes, then opens the refrigerator, pulling out a beer for Mama. The sight of this little, innocent girl carrying a twelve-ounce can of Budweiser makes me want to laugh, cry, and scream at the same time. I wish that Bree wanted me to read aloud to her or help her with her homework, but instead she goes back into the living room. From the light of the blaring TV, I can catch a glimpse of Bree crawling up next to Mama. Bree's too old for this, but then she didn't really have much of a childhood, so I leave her alone.
I wash the dishes by hand. The dishwasher broke months ago, but Mama hasn't gotten it fixed. Ryan keeps saying he'll do it, but I don't believe him. After doing the dishes, I need to start on the laundry. Since Bree is curled up in the living room, I strip the fading old Shrek sheets from her bed, and gather up her clothes, most of them hand-me-downs and Ryan's five-finger discounts. I want to dress Bree in pink skirts with pretty bows in her braided hair, not old sweatshirts. I want for her everything that I never had, everything that I am not, and nothing I have ever felt.
While I wash Bree's clothes, I decide to bathe my body. I lock the bathroom door, but also jam a mop handle against the knob. I don't understand how the other girls parade around naked during gym class. I sometimes wonder if that's yet another reason I don't take Ms. Chapman's offer to try out for track. The water feels as good and clean as my body feels sore and dirty. No matter how hard I scrub, I don't feel any cleaner, and the foul odors of our house cling to me. As I clean between my legs, I'm gentle. Yet even if I'm thinking about Glen, I can't imagine what Anne said, about sex feeling good. My body must be numb.
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