Blaze

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  What? I’m so focused on denying the sext it takes time for me to realize he’s talking about the very first time we met when we were young.

  “Your dad had an epic battle of the minds with the guy who used to work here.” Quentin confirms, and I release the breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding. “I’ve got to tell you, Blaze, your dad was like a huge hero to me that day. It was the first time I realized I might be able to actually do this.” He gestures around the shop. “I mean, okay, I don’t own the place yet, but I’m doing well enough with my website. Stan and I are discussing how we can best combine our businesses.”

  I cringe at the thought of him online, but he obviously hasn’t come across my photo yet. He’s still busy verbally worshiping my dad.

  “It was your dad giving words to an opinion I had that made me see I can trust my instincts. He annihilated the other guy’s arguments. It was awesome.”

  Quentin is smiling at me adoringly, and that flirty dimple underneath his lip is practically daring me to walk over and kiss it. I run my hand wistfully over the button-covered front of my messenger bag. I’d love to stay. But I know I need to get the hell out of here before the lies about me and Quentin get even worse. It would feel too awful to open myself to him, only to be rejected when he eventually finds out about my nasty reputation.

  “Yeah, my dad’s pretty great. I’ll tell him you said hi.” I turn to go.

  “Wait, no.” He looks perplexed. Leaning down so his elbows are on the glass counter he looks up at me. “I’m interested in your opinions, not your dad’s. He just inspired me, that’s all. I really, really enjoy talking to you.”

  With his messy hair and pleading eyes, he’s too freaking cute for me to handle right now. I need to escape his magnetic field. “I’ve got to go.”

  I flee, ignoring Quentin’s earnest, “Blaze?” that lands on my back.

  When I reach Superturd I notice for the first time how much my pink flame job has faded from the sun. It’s fitting, since I haven’t bothered putting KoolAid in my hair for a few weeks, and it’s mostly back to blonde with just a twinge of pink. Not to mention how faded my whole life seems right now. At least everything is all matchy-matchy.

  • • •

  Making my way down the hall at school the next day I seem to be inspiring pseudo-Tourette symptoms in random people. “Slutbag!” “Skank!” “Ho!”

  “Hey, slut! Where’s my Daredevil?”

  It’s the last person I can imagine verbally abusing me, and yet here he is. My ex-worshipper. Ryan.

  Others glance at us as they pass by, and Ryan’s pleased look tells me he’s making a play for whatever public attention he can get. I could challenge him, and odds are he’d back down. But really, I just want everyone to go back to ignoring me.

  “Oh, um, hi, Ryan,” I say feebly, but his jaw stays set. Thankfully the comic is still in my messenger bag, although at this point it’s way beyond ‘near mint’ and deep into ‘fine.’ I see Ryan lick his lips and glance around the crowded hallway as I pull the Daredevil out and silently hand it to him.

  I turn to go, but instead of just letting me move on with my miserable life, Ryan actually raises the comic over his head. “Well, thanks a bunch! Now it’s got your skanky germs all over it!” He slams it to the ground.

  The Slap! it makes on the tiled floor makes me flinch.

  Laughter springs up in patches as I stare at the crumpled comic. I look at the boy who once groveled for a single moment of my attention. The only reason he even bought the comic in the first place was to have a reason to talk to me. I search Ryan’s face for some sign of remorse, but he seems delighted at hurting me.

  “In fact…” He glances about. “Why don’t you suck my dick, Blaze. You know you’ve always wanted it.”

  I turn and run.

  As my ears ring with Ryan’s words, I head directly to the parking lot and the safety of the Flaming Superturd of Doom. I’m breathless by the time I reach her, but as I yank open the door, something catches my eye that makes me stop and stare. On the driver’s side. Right in the middle of a swirling pink flame.

  SLUT!

  Someone has keyed the word into the side of my minivan. I feel like I’ve been physically violated. Who would deface poor innocent Superturd? Looking around to see if I’m being watched, I dive into the back, slamming the door behind me. It’s nearly winter, but unseasonably warm, and the sun has been beating on Superturd all day. I’m so tired I flop onto the floor, which, I can tell you, is a considerable health risk. The carpet smells like it’s harboring a locker room’s worth of bacteria. I lie, numbly staring at the crumpled white food bags stuffed under the seat.

  The horrific exchange with Ryan replays over and over in my mind. His cruel words are carved into me as deeply as the word SLUT! Eventually, I must doze off, because the next thing I know Josh is leaning over me with concern in his voice. “Blaze? You okay?”

  I pop up as if he’s just shocked me with a cattle-prod. “Yup!” I say brightly, “everything’s great.” Climbing into the driver’s seat, I start Superturd and try to pretend I didn’t just spend the last two hours of the school day lying facedown in toxic brown fibers.

  “Why did somebody key ‘SLUT’ into the side of the van?” Josh asks, and I curse myself for not turning it around in the parking space when I had the chance. Of course he saw the crude vandalism when he approached from my side. Stupid, I chide myself.

  I shrug. “Maybe Superturd has been making time with a conversion van or two.” But Josh is busy staring at my face.

  “Why is your cheek all red?”

  My hand flies up to the side of my face that was nuzzled deep in the science experiment carpet a moment ago. It feels hot, and a brief glance in the rearview mirror shows a speckled pink rash running from cheek to chin.

  Sigh.

  “Just having one of those days,” I tell Josh and turn up the radio full blast to blot out my memory of it.

  When we get home, Josh takes advantage of the nice weather, staying in the front yard to kick his soccer ball around. I storm directly into the house.

  My car has been vandalized. I’m a complete social pariah. I’ve been forced to abandon my chances with Quentin. And now my cheek is starting to itch. I toss my messenger bag on the couch, fling my head back, and scream loudly, as if there’s a string of capital As rising out of my mouth: “AAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  It feels so good I take a deep breath and am just about to let loose again when the house phone gives a loud BRIIIING! I pick it up and blurt an angry, “Hello!” into the receiver.

  “Oh, my! Blaze? What are you doing home so early?” It’s Mema Sissy’s smooth voice. “I’m calling to wish your mother a happy Name Day.”

  I bang my temple with the phone. “Mom’s still at work, Mema,” I say with zero-percent patience in my voice.

  “Oh, I am getting a bit forgetful in my old age,” says Mema. “I thought she might be home by now.”

  “I can tell her you called,” I offer.

  “Hmmm, yes. So tell me, how is that boy Mark you’re dating?” A bit forgetful my butt.

  “We were never really dating, Mema.”

  “I don’t know, dear, I already have his Name Day down in my calendar to call you, April twenty-fifth.” I can hear her dachshunds barking in the background as Mema goes on. “Mark has always been one of my favorite saints. Most people like Peter for his enthusiasm or John for writing so beautifully, but I’m a Mark fan all the way. In fact, maybe if I’d named your father Mark instead of Michael he wouldn’t have turned out to be such a deadbeat.”

  “Mark and I have totally broken up,” I interrupt before she can start ranting about Dad. “And this Mark is definitely not a saint.”

  “Did you know the winged lion is St. Mark’s symbol? So majestic! I really regret not giving that name to your awful father…”

  I can’t take it anymore. I totally lose it on my Mema Sissy. I start with, “Listen here! I know you believe all this crap about n
ames and saints is somehow meaningful…” and it just gets worse from there. By the time Josh walks in the front door, I’m saying some very unholy things into the phone.

  His eyes widen as he flings his backpack on the couch. “Who are you talking to?” he mouths, which shuts me up pretty quick.

  I stand, holding the receiver out toward him helplessly. “It’s, um… Mema?” I squeak.

  He stifles a laugh and takes the phone. Pressing it to his ear he says, “Oh my God, Mema, I am so sorry! Blaze is taking serious medication for a cold right now and…”

  His end of the conversation dissolves into penitent ‘yes’s and ‘sorry’s. Until finally he ends with, “I understand, Mema, I’ll tell her.”

  As soon as the phone disconnects, Josh morphs from mild to hysterical as I clap both hands over my mouth. “I can’t believe I just let loose on Mema like that,” I say. “I’m definitely going to hell.”

  “It’s okay,” Josh says. “I’ll just be her favorite grandchild for a while.” He tips his chin up and frames his smiling face with jazz hands.

  The two of us start laughing, and I’m filled with gratitude that Josh doesn’t have a clue what’s happening to me over at the high school. I know time is shrinking before the rumors reach his grade, but I’m determined to keep him in the dark as long as possible.

  When he finally stops laughing, Josh meets my eyes. “You doing okay, sis?”

  “Fine.” I shrug. “I’m just on the rag and took it out on Mema.”

  “Ugh! Blaze!” Josh crosses his wrists in front of his face to block my sharing. “Way, way, WAY too much information.”

  “Well, you asked,” I say. “Are you sure you don’t want to know details? Like for instance the tampons I use are—”

  Josh jams his fingers into his ears and runs from the room loudly singing, “La! La! La! La! La!”

  Maybe I should try that technique at school the next time someone calls me a slut, I think, heading for the garage for some paint to cover up the ugly word.

  Fortunately, I saved the leftover pink paint from Superturd’s flame job and so I cover over SLUT! without a problem. Well, other than the fact that there’s now one bright pink patch on an otherwise faded pink flame that, if you look at it from the right angle in the sunlight, still says SLUT!

  With a sigh I put the pink paint away in the garage as in my head I chant, La! La! La! La! La! La!

  • • •

  “Please send Blaze to Principal Hoovlen’s office.”

  The monotoned static voice comes over the loud speaker during biology lab. When I stand up to go, some smartass in the back of the room gives a fake *cough* “whore,” which gets a few laughs. The whole class is so juvenile and stupid I wonder why I even bother feeling sad as I clutch my books to my chest and barrel out the door.

  I just need to ignore them, I think as I make my way toward the school office. Keep my head down and pretend I’m someplace else. Surely things can’t get any worse.

  When I get to the principal’s office, the door is propped open and the secretary has her usual classical music blaring out of her computer. Her mild pleasantness tightens as she leads me to Principal Hoovlen’s inner sanctum. I walk through the door, and that’s when I see it. Physical proof that things can always get worse. A leg clad in light blue hospital scrubs. And not just any leg. Mom’s leg. I should just kill myself now and be done with it.

  Mom’s back is toward the door, and I avert my eyes as I sink into the chair beside her. I know immediately she’s here about the sext and that the evil bald dictator sitting at his desk in front of us is the one who called her in behind my back.

  I glance at Principal Hoovlen. He’s a total NASCAR fanatic, which is kind of a joke around the school, but he’s actually pretty well-liked for a principal. A lot of the football players think he’s some sort of chum because he used to be a coach, but I’ve always been intimidated by him.

  It seems as if Mom is too, since she hides her reaction while he tells her about my “situation.” To his credit, he manages to avoid using the words “slut,” “whore,” and “skank-ho.” Apparently someone came to him after witnessing my exchange with Ryan. Mr. Hoovlen doesn’t have all the details right, but he conveys the theme fairly well. Basically, I’ve been getting bullied and as he says, “We take this sort of thing very seriously these days.”

  When he finishes Mom’s debriefing, he leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and interlaces his hands over his knee.

  We wait silently for Mom’s reaction. She sits erect, eyes closed, chin raised, breathing shallowly. With a final slow, deep breath she seems to pull herself together.

  “Do you have a copy of this photo?” Mom asks him calmly.

  Principal Hoovlen straightens. “I don’t think the indecent photo of your daughter is of consequence at this point, the other students seem to—”

  Mom puts her hand out to me. For a moment, I think she’s breaking me out due to lack of evidence, but she commands, “Give me your cell phone.” I stare at her empty palm. “Right now, Blaze!”

  My superhero buttons rattle gently in the silent office as I dig through my messenger bag. I find my phone and hand it over.

  At first I think this is just step one of grounding me from all present and future technological devices, but when she turns it on and starts scrolling around I nearly lunge to snatch it back. I should’ve pretended I lost it or it was stolen or even that I crushed it underneath Superturd’s back tire. Anything but let her get a hold of it, because I quickly realize what she’s looking for. And it doesn’t take long for her to find it either. Curse that damned photo!

  I can tell the moment she catches sight of it because she sucks in her breath so sharply Principal Hoovlen actually flinches. Mom must’ve taken in all the air from the room too, because I suddenly can’t breathe. A glance at Mr. Hoovlen confirms the sudden scarcity of oxygen.

  Mom closes her eyes as she places the phone on the edge of the desk. I reach over and shut it off without looking at the devastating image. I curse myself for not erasing it. I will definitely be crushing this thing under Superturd’s back tire, I promise as I toss the phone back in my bag.

  When Mom opens her eyes they dart quickly to Principal Hoovlen. She draws in another slow, deep breath, nearly suffocating us all. She smoothes the front of her scrub top and places her hands on her lap.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?” she says calmly, which is such an oddball thing to say it makes me realize she’s actually concerned about Principal Hoovlen’s impression of her mothering skills. She must be feeling judged, because the real Mom would go supernova over that photo.

  “I didn’t take it.”

  “Well, you sure looked happy enough to have it taken. Where did you even get that ridiculous underwear?”

  “The girls and I were just messing around at the mall.” I had been dreading her reaction, but now she’s annoying me with her phoniness. “I do buy underwear, you know.”

  Mom glances toward Principal Hoovlen. “Don’t you get fresh with me, miss. I should be at the hospital right now.” Mom’s eyes dart back and forth. In a low conspiring growl she asks. “What the hell is going on with you, Blaze? First the pink hair and the minivan. Now this awful photo? And what happened on the phone with Mema Sissy? Don’t you know we need her to keep paying your gas card? Do you want to ruin everything?” She leans back and widens her eyes at me. “Blaze. Are you pregnant?”

  Principal Hoovlen gives a panicked squeak and I sit blinking at her a few moments before I feel it bubbling up from inside. Laughter. I must’ve snapped, because I can’t help it. I start laughing hysterically. “No, Mom, I’m not pregnant.” I spit on the p sound. “And I have the pink pee stick to prove it.” Principal Hoovlen and Mom just sit there, helpless bystanders, as I come completely unhinged.

  “Do you think this is some sort of sick joke?” Mom asks. I shake my head and try to look as serious as possible while wiping my eyes and breaking into
giggles again and again.

  “I hardly think your principal would waste his time if this wasn’t very serious, Blaze.” She turns to Mr. Hoovlen. “This is all because of her father, you know. He left us nearly five years ago. Took off to New York to pursue some silly dream…”

  Anger squashes my laughter. I was bad at suppressing my giggles, but I’m even worse at suppressing my rage. “Would you mind shutting up about Dad?” I say to her.

  The sound of typing from the next room stops, and everything goes still. Mom just stares at me a few moments. She shifts sideways in her seat and smiles apologetically to my mute principal.

  But I’m not finished yet. I’ve had too much pressure piled on me for far too long. Mema’s the one who was always harping on me to find my voice. Now it’s time for me to use it.

  “I am SO sick of you blaming him for everything.” I hear my words, but it feels like it’s someone else yelling. “God forbid anyone makes a mistake in your world. Do you have any idea how hard things have been for me?”

  “Hard for you?” She finally forgets about pretending to be the perfect mother. “I’m the one who got stuck with all the work while that bastard runs around New York doing whatever he pleases!”

  Mr. Hoovlen has the good taste to look completely mortified for the both of us.

  “What thanks do I get? You’re always acting as if your father is going to swoop in and rescue you,” Mom says. “Like he’s some sort of hero—”

  “This. Is not. About. Dad.” I stab her with my words. “I don’t blame him for leaving you and Mema. Nobody is perfect enough for you two, ever. God forbid anyone show they’re human or make a mistake. I’d leave too, if I could. As a matter of fact…”

  With that, I stand up, fling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and storm out of the office.

  “Blaze, wait!” Mom calls after me. “Come back here and discuss this.”

  But I’m already out into the hallway. The secretary’s annoying classical music fades as I move away.

  I turn back and see Mom standing in the office doorway. She looks deflated in her hospital scrubs, and I’m ashamed to be the one who knocked the wind out of her. She looks from me to the principal, as if deciding how she’s supposed to act. Like she needs some sort of instructions to tell her what she should do. A How to Be a Mother manual.