Her mom scrubs the floor with a cloth, and her uncle, looking unsure what to do with his hands, puts his guitar back on and strums a few chords.
— Turn the amp off, Ty. Jim’s going to be home any minute. Help me clean this place up.
Emily turns away from the doorway and goes upstairs to do her math homework.
In her pale blue room she sits on the edge of her perfectly made bed and picks at her hangnails. She can’t concentrate on her fractions. Blood pools on her left index finger and she licks it away absently, listening to her mom and Uncle Tyler downstairs. They aren’t singing anymore, but she can’t make out what they’re saying, amid the sounds of running water, dishes clattering in the sink, and chairs being slid back into place. Emily gets up and hides the candle holder in her top dresser drawer under her tights, though there is still no sign of Lenora. The back door rattles shut, and from her bedroom window, Emily watches her uncle walk toward his car. Before opening the door, he pauses, pats the hood, and grins, then climbs in and drives away.
— Bye. She sighs deeply, her nose pressed up against the glass, fogging it up.
15
AFTER A WEEK OF FITFUL sleeping alternated with saccharine, perfunctory counselling and keeping my hands away from sharp objects, they let me out. My parents pretended I’d never been in the hospital and that was fine with me. The house, the Kingdom Hall, and the town itself were like prison cells and all my energy went into planning my escape: researching universities, filling out forms, creating a budget, getting a summer job. These were things considered normal, even commendable for most teenagers, but for me, it was forbidden, and therefore covert. It was sedition.
I got a job in a local greenhouse, and planned to work as much as possible all summer to supplement the student loans. One night I came home to my father standing on the front porch, a manila envelope clenched in his hand. When he saw me on my ten-speed in the driveway, he started shouting.
— And just what is this? He waved the package over his head.
— Who do you think is going to pay for you to run off in September? You think you’re so much smarter than everybody else, but I’ve got news for you, you’re not going anywhere, you hear me?
He got louder and louder as I rode past and into the backyard. He jogged behind me.
— Answer me! Who do you think you are?
He grabbed my shoulder and I fell off the bike into the gravel. Jagged bits of stone dug into my palms and stung like wasps. I ignored the pain and untangled myself from the spokes, then snatched my envelope from his hands.
— I’m not asking you for any help. I’ll pay for school myself. I brushed the stones from my hands and arms and knees. My left shin was gouged and bleeding.
— Oh no, you won’t. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re not moving hours away to a city you barely know, living with . . . with . . . strangers!
I noted that he didn’t say “worldly people” or mention the Last Days. He didn’t have to.
— We can talk about you maybe commuting to the community college part-time or something—
— I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.
I knew better than to stay and argue. Commute to community college! He just didn’t want me to miss any meetings; he didn’t want to look bad in the beady eyes of the elders. That is, he didn’t want to look any worse. I folded the envelope and shoved it into my pocket, then got back on my bike and rode for a couple hours in the dark, veering far onto the side of the road when a car passed. Every so often I would stop and run my fingers along the edges of the envelope, afraid to open it. What if I didn’t get in? What would I do then? I couldn’t stay there, in that town, with the elders circling me like predators, waiting to pounce on any moral misstep.
Under a streetlight near a truck stop, I finally opened the letter.
Dear Emily Morrow:
Congratulations. We are pleased to accept you into the Faculty of Arts and Science . . .
Beyond that, the letter didn’t register. I yelped and danced on the side of the road, high on my own sense of impending freedom. I thought of nothing else for the rest of that summer. Gradually, I boxed up the items that mattered to me and stashed them at Uncle Tyler’s, to be shipped to me later in the fall. And then I got on a bus and left.
THE BASEMENT APARTMENT WAS IN the west end of the city, a half-hour’s walk from school. The landlady, Maria, lived upstairs and liked me because I was quiet and didn’t smoke and/or have a pet.
— You’re a good girl. Maria came down to visit, smiling, a week after I moved in.
— Here, take this, for protection.
She thrust a small clay Virgin Mary at me, then a six-inch bleeding Jesus on porcelain cross. He had long hair and sad eyes and was caked with a layer of dust. I was supposed to hang them on my door to ward off evil, or to remind me of my sins, or both. I had grown up afraid of these types of pagan idols. Replicas of Jesus and Mary adorned many of the front doors and porches in my neighbourhood, and I couldn’t quite break the habit of averting my eyes every time I walked past them.
I held them stiffly in my fists.
— Thanks.
Maria nodded and smiled.
That was the first time I’d ever touched a cross. It actually felt disorienting, illicit. I had no idea what to do with the figurines. I didn’t feel obligated to refuse the gifts and launch into a patronizing explanation about the beliefs of Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I still surged with reflexive panic at accepting false idols. I smiled back at Maria, who clearly had no idea of the spiritual quandary she had instigated, and she crossed herself with a pudgy hand and smiled. Then she let her grey and white cat, Damascus, back inside, and a streetcar rattled up the road. I looked down at my new talismans: Jesus’ left foot was chipped.
I started university with thousands of others, bought my books, and unpacked. I majored in English Literature because I couldn’t think of anything else I really enjoyed. There were just so many options, it was overwhelming. Sometimes I even missed the facade of simplicity that my upbringing had offered — with so much being forbidden and off-limits to me, choices were few, and therefore simple, and without agony. Maybe someday I could open a bookstore or become a librarian. Growing up under the constant threat of Armageddon, I had never much considered adulthood or career options, and was in no hurry to do so now. My classes weren’t that much more difficult than those in my final year of high school, just slightly more interesting.
The only part of first-year university I didn’t excel at was social life. I avoided the ridiculous-looking Frosh Week activities, which was easy since I didn’t live on campus, and I didn’t say much to my classmates. In a city, anonymity was easy. I didn’t want people to know who I was, where I came from, how I grew up, or anything about me. I didn’t want friends. Just like I did as a kid, I craved invisibility.
Sometimes I stayed home in my pyjamas and watched television all day. It mostly blared the news. Bombings in the Middle East. Starvation in east Africa. Rock stars shooting themselves. Missing children who turned up bloated in rivers. So many different forms of death. I would mute the volume, and it was even more ominous without the narration. All this destruction reminded me of images from issues of Awake! and The Watchtower. Calamitous portents. At overtired, anxious times like these, scriptures would lodge themselves in my head and drone over and over. Better to just get them out of my system, I thought, and so I chanted verses I’d memorized years ago.
Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; and there will be great earthquakes, and in one place after another pestilences and food shortages; and there will be fearful sights and from heaven great signs.
I even remembered that the quotation was from Luke chapter twenty-one, verses ten and eleven.
It was time to get a job and distract myself. There were lots of telemarketing and restaurant positions available, accordi
ng to the newspaper I got on the corner. I had experience in neither and that didn’t impress any of the managers I called. I started to lie to the bars, telling them that I had bussed tables in a diner back home. It could have been true, I told myself, trying to justify it. I had a lot of these silent arguments, convincing myself that they were not actually lies if they could have perhaps been true.
Finally, after hours of enquiries, a pub near the university was interested, particularly after I told them I was a student there.
— Can you come by for an interview tonight? At seven, before it gets busy? Ask for Kameela.
— Sure. Of course. Thanks a lot.
For the next couple of hours, I practised carrying drinks. I filled the two glasses and two mugs I owned with water, put them on a plate and carried them around my apartment. It was harder than it looked and my wrist began to ache. I sloshed water onto the plate and then the floor a few times, and mopped it up. I would have to practise a lot more before doing this for real. I went into the bathroom and smiled into the mirror.
— What’ll it be? My attempt at a friendly drawl sounded like I had a speech impediment. My grin looked cartoonish, like someone had pasted it onto my face.
— What can I get you? I cocked my head and tried to look inquisitive.
I wasn’t very outgoing, but I wanted the job, and I knew you had to be friendly to get tips. I couldn’t be quiet and nervous like I was in class or I wouldn’t have the job for very long. I needed something to help me gain — or at least fake — confidence.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, then exhaled and opened them. There was an unopened box under my bed. It was one of the boxes Uncle Tyler had sent me from back home, where it had been sealed for years. My hands began to shake. For the next half-hour, I pulled the box out from under the bed, then slid it back. The thought of opening it felt wrong, like stealing. I paced, unsure if I could bring myself to do it.
Don’t be such a coward. Just open it.
Are you sure? You don’t mind?
I gritted my teeth and got a steak knife from the kitchen and slit the seams and pulled open the box. It was full of familiar items and their smells — cheap vanilla perfume, musty t-shirts — made my face flush and palms sweat. I rummaged until I found something that would work.
The label said Blood Red.
I pulled off the lid and carefully applied two coats to my lips.
— What’s your poison? I winked at the imaginary table of frat boys. Better. I practised a few more times, in borrowed Blood Red boldness, until I felt like I could do it.
I had rarely dealt with drunk people before. I didn’t know if there would be fights, spills, or worse — vomit. The very thought of that nearly panicked me into calling back to cancel my interview. But the alternative — hours of phoning strangers and trying to sell them things they didn’t want or need — had even less appeal. I just hoped I’d be lucky and no one would ever throw up during my shifts.
I chose a plain black skirt and a white blouse to wear to meet Kameela. What I used to call my Hall clothes would now be for job interviews.
16
THURSDAY IS NOT HER LIBRARY shift, and Mr. MacKay says he doesn’t need her, that she should go outside and get some fresh air instead, but Emily doesn’t know what to do with herself during recess. In a section of the playground near the doors by their classroom, some girls are making snow angels. They study and compare each attempt to see whose is the neatest, most perfect angel. Any with smudged edges or different-sized wings are disqualified. Agnes the Pentecostal is winning. They would let Emily play if she wanted to, but she’s not allowed to make snow angels. She tries to remember why, to practise explaining it in her head to a worldly person, but she forgets the exact reason. It has something to do with idolatry. Or maybe Christmas.
A snowball fight ricochets across the soccer field, as warring boys hurl clumps of ice and snow at each other, fistfuls that probably contain stones, twigs, dog pee, or worse, and anyone near the field is a potential target. Emily stays by the doors, huddled in the alcove, trying to turn the pages of her Trixie Belden mystery without removing her gloves.
— Hey!
Emily does not look up. Boys rarely direct their shouts at her.
— Hey you! Josh Hansen lumbers toward her. He’s a year older than her and several inches taller. Last year he was suspended twice for fighting, and each time he gave the other kid a bloody nose. Emily tries to hide the book, sick of being made fun of for reading at recess. It fits halfway into her pocket, and her arm, if she holds it still, covers the rest.
— What?
— You Emily Morrow? His shadow blocks the sun’s glare and he rests his bare hands on his hips.
— Yes.
— Is Lenora your sister?
— Yeah, why?
— Because.
Josh squints at her, and takes a step closer, demanding, expectant. Emily stumbles back, butting against the door. He smirks.
— When did your sister decide to go punk?
— Punk? What do you mean?
— My brother says she’s the hottest punk in school. Josh laughs.
— Are you going punk too?
— No! And Lenora isn’t either!
Emily knows her sister, she does. But she dyed her hair and doesn’t wear it normal and long anymore, and she came home late the night before, way after dinner, and refused to say where she’d been. Out was all she told her parents, and she didn’t even respond when they yelled at her for half an hour, finally grounding her for a month. It’s like having two sisters, and wondering where the other one went.
— You know who my brother is?
— No. And I don’t care either. Emily’s heart beats fast; she breathes hard to keep up with it, and wonders why the bell hasn’t rang yet.
— He’s the biggest skinhead in town.
Emily doesn’t know what a skinhead is, and doesn’t want to.
— So?
— So? Josh mimics her and steps even closer. Theo said he tested her, to see if she’s a real punk or just a stupid poser, like you.
He glares at her, like he’s waiting for an apology, or an explanation.
— And he said she is. Your sister’s a real punk. She passed the test.
The bell rings and the alcove swarms with kids shouting and shoving and teeming to get inside.
— I bet they’re gonna do it too. They’ve been going out long enough. Theo doesn’t screw posers, he told me. So there! Josh pushes her against another kid, cuts in front of the line, and goes inside.
— Sorry. Emily stumbles and her book falls from her pocket and lands in the snow.
THAT NIGHT EMILY WAITS UNTIL she’s alone with Lenora to ask her about what Josh said. After dinner, she knocks on her sister’s door.
— What is it? I’m busy.
— It’s only me. Emily tries the door; it’s locked.
— Let me in. It’s important!
Lenora sighs loudly, unhooks the latch, and opens the door. She flops on her unmade bed and flips through a glossy magazine.
— So what do you want?
— I have a question.
— Yeah, so? Can’t you ask Mom, instead of always interrupting me?
— No.
— Fine. What do you want to know?
Emily pauses, making sure she gets the word right.
— What’s a skinhead?
— An asshole. Why? Lenora opens a bottle of royal blue nail polish.
— I’m telling! You swore!
— No you’re not. You’re not telling anyone, or I’ll tell that you were reading a worldly book out in service last time, while Dad was at a door and you were in the car.
Emily doesn’t know what to say. She was very careful to put the book back in her bag when her father left the house and walked d
own the driveway toward the car again. She didn’t think Lenora, dozing off in the front seat, had noticed.
— Yeah, that’s right, I saw you. You think you’re all smart hiding your stupid mystery books, but I saw you.
Emily doesn’t say anything.
— Still gonna tell on me?
— No. But what’s a skinhead?
— I told you.
— Besides that.
— Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. They’re like the punks but they all look pretty much the same, with shaved heads, big boots, jeans, and black t-shirts. Most of them are racist jerks, but not all of them.
Emily knows what racist means from the meetings at the Kingdom Hall; Jehovah’s Witnesses are not allowed to be racist, because Jehovah God created black people and white people equal. In their congregation, however, there are no black brothers or sisters.
— Now do you understand what a skinhead is, or do I need to draw you a diagram?
— So Theo Hansen is a skinhead? Was he the guy in the car that time? When you guys picked me up? Is he a racist?
Lenora quickly looks up from painting her nails and smears some blue on the knuckle of her thumb.
— What do you know about Theo Hansen?
Emily grins. She finally has Lenora’s attention.
— I don’t know. His stupid brother Josh goes to my school and was talking about you today.
— About me? What does some little grade school kid have to say about me?
— He said you were going punk.
She pauses, waiting for Lenora to deny it.
— He said that his brother tested you.
Lenora says nothing.
— He said you passed.
— Whatever.
— He said you two are going out.
This part seems the most impossible of all, and she wants, more than anything, for Lenora to deny it.
Lenora begins another coat of nail polish.
— Well, what did he mean? Why did he say you were punk? What was on the test? She drops her voice to a whisper.
Watch How We Walk Page 9