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Screw everybody.
Let the alarm broadcast my illegal exit.
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GREGG DAVIS
CHAPTER TWO
parental management
my vomit-soaked skirt stuck to my butt as i walked, shivering, to my house.
Mom’s ’86 Volvo was not in the driveway.
(good)
(no maternal freak-outs)
Wincing with every step, i climbed to the front porch of our rambling, gray-frame Victorian house and unlocked the door. My body screamed from the abuse, especially that last vicious kick.
A’ja followed me, sensing my distress, as i slipped upstairs to my bathroom and began to peel off my clothes. Pulling my sweater over my head hurt, but seeing the bruises on my thighs made me wince more. Staring at my puke-covered self in the mirror over the bathroom sink, i issued my verdict: i am a survivor.
No. Wait.
What did i see in my eyes?
DeÀ ance?
There was still some À ght in me and a whole lot of self-conÀ dence. my family’s motto came to mind: Fortitudo Fortis Defendit. Courage Protects the Bold Ones. The saying appeared on the Davis family crest, which featured two roaring lions with crowns, standing on hind legs with forepaws ready for battle, each facing a brilliant, gold aura-encompassed heart.
This crest, painted on a shield, was positioned over the À replace in our formal dining room.
(my family’s standard for daily consumption)
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Being a victim was not in my DNA. Could i turn this situation into a victory for myself? i never wanted those troglodytes for friends. Why not have them as enemies? At least everyone would be out in the open. None of that fake, Southern, “I’ll pray for you” crap as they stick the knife between the fourth and À fth rib.
i would have wept for my loss of innocence but there was no time. A more important task awaited me. i had to fool the parents into thinking nothing was wrong. i was not about to tell them the whole story. Not a chance. If i mentioned the extent of the bullying, Dad would storm the corridors of my life seeking vengeance and i couldn’t take any more embarrassment. i would handle my life my way.
God, i thought, this hair. How was i ever going to unsnarl it? Couldn’t. In an impetuous decision, i decided to mark this day with a visible reminder of my ability to endure. Where were the scissors? Oh yeah, i left them on the bookcase after i cut Jack’s face out of my yearbooks.
(bastard)
Grabbing them, i returned to the bathroom. This would not be a pretty haircut. It would look as raw as i felt. i began hacking – leaving an inch here, two inches there and a peculiar fringe going every which way across my forehead. i wanted to do something that could not be easily À xed. i liked it.
Sort of resembled a bizarre Raggedy Ann doll.
Perhaps a shower. Hot water cured everything, i hypothesized. As the healing stream poured down my body, i closed my eyes and turned my face upward, seeking a moment of grace.
Resolution.
i lifted my arms to the ceiling and let loose a battle cry.
The new Gregg Davis.
Tougher.
Indestructible.
No one screwed with me.
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GREGG DAVIS
A’ja meowed her approval from the toilet seat.
(ironic, right?)
Toweling off, i searched through my closet for anything black and found skinny jeans, a long-sleeved turtleneck and Doc Martens. While part of me wanted to hide my body in baggy clothes, i decided to project invincibility instead. Staring in the full length mirror, i had to admit the effect was, well, dramatic. i felt empowered by my creativity.
Three À nger taps and a knock alerted me to my little sister’s presence on the other side of my bedroom door. “Gregg?” she said, her voice urgent.
Again, three taps and a knock. “Please answer.”
The knob twisted a couple of times but the door was locked. “Gregg?”
i walked over to the door and leaned against it.
“Go away, Caro,” i said as my back slid down the heavy oak until i sat on the Á oor with my arms wrapped around my knees.
“Are you sure?” Caro kept her voice low. “I heard about what happened.”
(jeez, even middle schoolers knew)
A’ja bumped against me, purring when i found comfort in stroking her fur.
“i’m okay.”
(not true but i would have cried if i saw Caro)
“Listen, there’s something you can do for for me.”
“Anything,” she vowed.
“Distract the parents,” i said. “Don’t tell them a thing and no matter what, don’t react when you see me. Promise?”
“God, Gregg,” she sounded worried. “What have you done?”
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GREGG DAVIS
“Nothing,” i said. “Please? i’ll be down in a moment.”
Caro was loyal but she would be affected by the danger in my world, something i hadn’t considered when i went all radical. i forgot to protect her.
When was i going to start considering the consequences of my impulses before i acted? i would have to convince her to leave things alone and not attack my assailants.
(my thirteen year-old sister could be ferocious when defending someone she loved despite being a tiny, pink, delicate girl)
“Promise we’ll talk later?” she begged.
(but, she could be annoying)
“Yes.” i sighed. “Please leave.”
The sound of feet shufÁ ing down the hall reassured me.
(did i mention she more often than not kept my secrets?) Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, À ve, four, three, two, one.
Showtime.
i went downstairs, holding A’ja, to my father’s library in the front of the house, where everyone gathered for our evening tea ritual. i paused outside of the threshold to steady myself. The familiar musty odor emanating from rare books and antique mahogany wainscoting, greeted me.
A reassuring À re crackled in the À replace. i loved this room despite the beady little eyes of the stuffed owl which sat on a pedestal in the corner by the alcove window. Dad called it “Hoot.” The moth-eaten thing was a relic from my father’s great-grandfather who rode with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders. Other souvenirs bore witness to my family’s storied past. A well-worn rug collected by my intrepid great aunt Jane while on her Silk Road caravan across Persia to China, covered the hardwood Á oor.
Indonesian death masks hung on the walls alongside spears used by the African Kuba Tribe in battle. Hindu murtis, statues of the god Shiva dancing the world into existence and the goddess Kali destroying demons, 20
INVISIBLE-I-AM
sat on either side of Dad’s large, mahogany desk. i bowed my head to each for good luck.
“Hey y’all,” i opened with my brightest smile as i stepped into the heart cave of my family.
my mother leapt to her feet when she registered my appearance and cried,
“Gregg! What happened? Why did you do this to yourself?”
So much for Plan A.
“Hi Mom,” i replied with a certain nonchalance. “No big deal.”
Maybe this would work.
i strolled over to the cushy, brown leather sofa, plopped down next to Dad and propped my feet up on the eighteenth-century coffee table.
(we were casual with our antiques)
Meanwhile, A’ja found her special, tasseled ottoman to observe the drama.
“You don’t get off that easy, young lady,” Mom retorted, hands on her hips, her blue eyes glistening with concern.
No one ever questioned the authority of Sallie Michau Legare White-Davis.
Not ever.
Mom turned to my father. “Noah, we need to talk to Gregg.”
He raised one eyebrow. Dad adhered to the let-the-ki
ds-À nd-their-own-way rule of parenting.
“Now.”
He gave me a sympathetic look.
“Caroline. To your room, please.”
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GREGG DAVIS
Caro stared at me with a horriÀ ed expression from the depths of the chintz armchair.
“Caroline Lee Davis.” my mother’s second command penetrated my sister’s brain and she left me to the inevitable interrogation. Her thoughtful eyes met mine as she passed. Good. my sister and i understood each other.
(at least this time)
As she went upstairs, i turned to face my parents.
Mom still wore her yoga clothes from teaching classes earlier in the day. The thigh-length, mossy green, cashmere sweater and dark teal leggings comple-mented her brown hair and hazel eyes. She was barefoot yet she had draped a silk paisley shawl across her shoulders. Typical.
my father was fashion hopeless. Think tan khakis, a button down, light blue, Oxford shirt and well-worn crosstrainers.
The combination of style and don’t-much-care they projected bemused me.
Yet i never doubted their absolute love.
As if reading my thoughts, Dad put his arm around me and pulled me closer to him in support. His touch made me stiffen at À rst but i reminded myself to breathe. my father was not going to abuse me and if i was going to pull off this charade, i needed to act like nothing was wrong.
“Spill,” Mom ordered, stepping into her role as disciplinarian. To her, living a well-regulated life was an act of self-friendship. She believed consistency provided a foundation for creativity. Dad was more into chaos, despite the fact that he viewed the scientiÀ c method as his religion. Both believed in balance. Or, as Mom taught, “hugging-the-midline of life.” Dad used English and called it moderation in all things.
(my hair-cutting exercise hardly fell within their parameters)
“Well,” my mind sifted through strategies and chose the À rst line of defense. “You know how Jack and I broke up a couple of weeks ago?” How could they forget? i used every invective i could access in my vocabulary and invented new ones. It took them days to calm down my rage.
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“Yes,” Mom answered. Succinct, as ever, my mother. She poured me a cup of Temple of Heaven Gunpowder Tea from Zhejiang Province, China, out of a delicate Qing Dynasty china pot.
Silence.
Mom knew the best way to break me.
(hated when she did it)
“i wanted to make a statement?” i offered, hoping this would be enough.
The skeptical looks on their faces said maybe not.
Dad changed his usual approach and challenged me, “Kind of extreme, don’t you think? What are you not saying?”
His eyes sought the truth i would never give him.
Fate intervened when a convoy of guys in pick-up trucks roared by our house. They blasted their horns and shouted obscenities about me. Their noise intruded into our sanctuary.
Shit.
Mom and Dad raced over to the window, pulled back the heavy, indigo velvet drapery and stared as the thugs made another pass. The full moon rising added drama to the scene.
(lovely)
(quintessential loveliness)
my parents turned and looked at me. And then they did something so them.
They drew me off the sofa and placed me in the middle of their gentle hug.
my father whispered, “Gregg sandwich.” A’ja rubbed against our legs, purring.
The sweetness of their gesture contrasted with the horribleness of the day and overwhelmed me. i began to cry heart-wrenching, broken-animal sort of sobs. Mom stroked my hair. Dad sang the lullaby, “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry.” Their tenderness made me blubber even more. i don’t know how long we stood there.
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When i calmed down, Mom returned to her questions but her tone changed from inquisition to consideration. “Gregg, you know you can tell us anything, right?”
“Yes, M’am.” But there was no way i was going to tell them about a sexual assault at school.
No. Freakin. Way.
“Maybe I should meet with your principal and try to À gure out what’s going on,” Dad offered.
“Look.” i had to keep him from À nding out what happened. “i can handle this.”
Both of them looked at me, taking my emotional temperature. Something in my stance made them acquiesce. Dad looked at Mom. She nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “But if we sense you need help, we will intervene.”
(whew)
“Thanks, y’all.” i regrouped and gave them both a quick hug. “What’s for dinner?”
(yes!)
(i was in charge of my own life)
If only school were as easy as my parents. i admit, my new rag doll look further isolated me. No one wanted to be associated with a freak.
One foot after another, i moved through school hearing echoes of my former self. i dropped out of all activities to avoid my enemies. my life contracted as the Fontaines’ expanded.
When the Internet footage didn’t appear right away, i thought maybe, if i showed i don’t care about rumors, i could manage.
(keeping it real, TJ used the absence of my online humiliation as another way to taunt me)
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GREGG DAVIS
i presented an impassive face to anyone who looked my way. i dared everyone to say anything to me. i painted my nails retch green and stomped around in scruffy, black army boots.
What made me mad was that i still mourned the loss of Jack.
(how could I be so weak?)
i didn’t know how to turn off all those years of caring, my need for his touch.
Grief came in waves.
i waited for pebbles to caress my window.
Nothing.
Silence from the boy next door.
i told myself again and again to forget him. He was not worth my energy.
Hard to heal though when he and Hayley were everywhere, the new power couple at Oaks. i lashed myself with guilt for giving into TJ the little i did; with remorse for wasting all those years with Jack; with memories to make the abomination real so i’d never forget how life can turn bad. i felt like everything special about me vanished and nothing would ever bring me back to me.
i toughed it out until late March when, hate this, i broke. Refused to come out of my room. Couldn’t stop crying. my mind obsessed. The shock i had managed to postpone in the immediacy of the battle, leveled me. Why?
Maybe Jack’s betrayal gutted my soul.
Maybe my rebellion couldn’t be sustained.
Maybe i am a loser.
i made myself invisible.
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GREGG DAVIS
CHAPTER THREE
the meaning of romance
(jk)
(nothing to do with romance)
(how about the meaning of life?)
(jk)
(like i’d know)
my godmother, Venerable Alston, says the world is black and white with enough gray to allow for navigation between the two. Gray represents an inimitable challenge. How can people be both good and bad? TJ epitomizes evil to me. E.V.I.L. Don’t observe a single redeeming quality. He and Hayley seem close. But, can they know love and be bullies? Like i said. Evil. Both of them. Their distorted reality holds no appeal for me. But, there must have been something about Hayley that appealed to Jack other than the rush of popularity.
Ok.
Go ahead.
Mention it.
Sex.
The one-eyed snake makes an appearance.
She must’ve been good because we were magic.
Ack.
Back to something more philosophical.
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my shift in perception happened when i stopped v
iewing the world through fairy tale eyes and realized in a survival-of-the-À ttest world, a different mo-rality exists. As in, eat or be eaten.
(oh gross, don’t go there)
(snide, gregg)
(nah — ironic, rueful)
(right?)
Anyway.
Maybe humans are what humans are: a species trying to survive nature.
Don’t get me wrong, nature can be spectacular. Joyful even. But, it’s also random. A toss of joss (as in luck). Fate. Name the culture and À nd an allowance for Á at-out surprise. Some good. Some, you know. Not very.
My worst enemy proved not to be Hayley. Not TJ. But, rather, me. The lure of the past. The desire for someone to say, “I’m sorry the universe screwed with your life. That a couple of kids’ desire for whatever, made your life misery.”
Or, did it?
Perhaps i allowed myself to go to the darkest of places because.
(well)
i felt like it.
Sucks to be stuck in the past. But, man. i sent myself there. Often.
Almost got stuck.
Astrophysicists posit we can only go forward in time. To me, time, as a human construct, bends as required by life circumstances. At least that’s my experience. Ever notice how it speeds up when there’s a math exam at 2:30
and slows down when vacation is two weeks away?
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GREGG DAVIS
Back then, a Á ash of memory could dump me into trauma as if i were in the moment, being bullied, my long, red hair dragging in my own vomit on the Á oor as i tried to stand . . . sorry, the ugliness grabbed me again.
Factor in the Internet, and your most horrifying humiliation can be replayed forever by any stranger on the planet. A true space/time conundrum.