I slunk lower in my seat. I’m not playing.
False, Abby crowed. False! You might be stressed, or sick, or have malnutrition.
Correct. Another five points.
Ask me a geography question, I grumbled.
Geography sounds good, Dad agreed.
I take the cunt book from Abby and silently mouth the title, feeling its power in my mouth. It’s a word that doesn’t take no for an answer. The hard c and the final t—you could hurl the word through the air and it might cut someone. It sounds like a swearword. I hate it. I turn to Abby. “There is no way the school is going to let you perform a monologue with that word in it.”
“I might surprise everyone. You know, slip it in.”
I shudder. That’s so Abby. Sometimes I think she likes to be edgy just to get attention. I wouldn’t sleep for a month if I had something like that planned, but Abby doesn’t seem to be breaking a sweat. “How much trouble will you be in then?” I ask.
“I don’t think they’ll kick me out of school, but if they did, wouldn’t that be awesome? When people asked me why I had to change schools or start homeschooling, I could say it was because I was taking back the word cunt to give power to women’s bodies. I could say I was challenging the patriarchal structure of our world.” Abby does a pirouette, landing dramatically with her hands above her head.
I shake my head. “You’re crazy.”
I leave Abby dancing in the kitchen and head downstairs to do some homework. After I work through my calculus, I think about Abby writing a c-word monologue and then about Zeyda, who thinks flowers are the way to a girl’s heart and her body too. The c word makes me think of vaginas as weapons, like something that says, Take that! Cunt rhymes with lots of words—bunt, runt, hunt, stunt, grunt—but I’m not sure how to make these into a poem. I sigh. I don’t need to rename my body parts to protect myself. I never let anyone close enough to hurt me.
Four
THE FOG BUILDS ALL WEEK. I fall into bed by 9:00 PM, feeling as if dark clouds are swamping my brain. Each night the heaviness that overtakes me as soon as I lie down is more extreme. Sleep comes with a dull, heavy tug, and I wonder if I’ll be able to get up the next morning. I plan new ways to get out of bed. Wednesday night I leave my phone in the bathroom, so that when I wake up Thursday morning I have to get up to see if Paul has texted me. He hasn’t, and I feel myself shrivel a little, rooted to the cold tile floor. I stand in the bathroom with my phone in my hand and my head pressed against the mirror before I convince myself that if I don’t get going, I’ll have to go to school with my hair unwashed. Paul and I sit together in class that day, but the chem teacher lectures and then shows a video, so we don’t talk. All day I check my phone, but there are no messages from Paul. I feel myself slowly start to deflate as the darkness tunnels into my chest.
Friday is the hardest day to get out of bed. Nothing works. Not Sudoku, not visualizing, not even leaving my phone in the bathroom. The effort of pushing the darkness away leaves me so exhausted that even choosing socks feels overwhelming. The darkness has seeped deep inside me, and it hurts to walk, to look at lights. I’m so late for school that Mom drives me, glaring at me the whole time while I pick at the banana muffin she grabbed for me on the way out. Worse, Paul is not at school. The fog feels as big as a rain cloud before a downpour. It’s so bad I decide the week has gone on long enough. I leave school early and skip both writing and Mandarin.
At home I make myself some mint tea and then go downstairs. I’m about to head to my room when I hear giggling in the tent. I guess Abby has decided to skip class too. When I push back the curtain, she is sprawled on the cushions with her friend Sunita beside her. “Hey,” I say.
Abby looks up at me. “Sunita and I are working on the play.”
“Oh. Great.” Usually the tent is just for us, but Abby’s looking at me as if to say, Do you mind? Obviously I’m interrupting some deep discussion about women’s bodies. I’ve seen Sunita and Abby at school together. Sunita is tiny with long black hair and big black eyes. She’s part of a group of sassy, fearless twelfth-grade girls Abby hangs out with. They support the Gay-Straight Alliance and Amnesty International, run for student council, hang out with the drama club and collect an assortment of odd guys, such as the boy who wears purple cowboy boots and eyeliner.
“I might go out for a bit,” I say.
Abby nods, her attention on Sunita. “See you later.”
I don’t exactly leave. I go out the back door from the kitchen and down the porch steps, then sneak back in the basement door, which is on my side of the basement, so Abby can’t hear me.
I quietly go into my room and open my closet door, step into the closet and close the door. Then I settle in the dark on the sheepskin rug I keep there, pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes. Once my breathing slows, it’s so quiet I can hear my heart beating. Then I can stop pretending not to be anxious, stop pretending the fog doesn’t exist.
A deep relief comes over me. I let my face fall into the hangdog expression I’ve kept off it all day. I let my shoulders sag. My brain relaxes. No more chem or math, no more Sofia or Paul or Abby, no more pretending to be fine so people won’t worry about me. There’s only the gray haze of the fog. I don’t bother shoving it away or pretending it’s not there.
Every week I push myself, make myself study, take notes, eat, talk to people. It’s very tiring, pretending to be normal. Sometimes I need an hour where I can stop. And the closet is good. Since no one knows where I am, no one has to worry about me, and I don’t have to pretend to be okay. I guess you could call sitting in the closet a kind of meditation, but it’s different than the meditation techniques Dr. Spenser taught me—sadder and more of a relief. I try not to do it too often because one day I won’t want to come out of the closet. One day I won’t be able to come out of the closet. It will be too easy to be in there and too hard to be out.
I hear Mom come home around four, which is early for her, but it’s Friday, and we have guests coming for dinner. I’m supposed to be making salad, not sitting in my closet. I hear Abby upstairs and Dad too. I should be helping, but the idea of our house full of guests makes me shrivel back into the corner. Minutes tick by and I still can’t move. I try to imagine a bulb of light inside me, lightening my mood. When that doesn’t work I focus on some wordplay. Mom’s going to be mad I didn’t make the salad yet. Mother, other, not her, her here, her ear, ear, earlier, should have been.
Then Syd, the kid, Dad used to call me, that was easier, being a kid, now Syd the kid wants to get rid, of herself, at least for a while, this breathing body, this heavy brain.
Composing something is one way to get out of the closet. I push open the door, roll onto the carpet and grab my phone to type the words before I forget them. Then I change into tights and my gray dress and comb my hair. I pull on my coat and shoes by the basement door, grab my backpack and then, after a few deep breaths, walk up the back steps and pretend to be getting home. It’s almost five o’clock now.
The kitchen smells like freshly baked challah and chicken soup. Mom made the dough before work this morning, and Dad cooked the soup last night. Now Mom is peeling vegetables, and Abby is working on a cake. Dad is in our tiny front entrance, shoving shoes into the closet.
Mom glances at the clock on the microwave and frowns at me. “Where have you been?”
“Just studying with Sofia.”
“Can you set the table, please?” She doesn’t bother disguising the frustration in her voice. I can see she’s already made the salad herself.
An hour later Mom’s guests, mostly from the congregation at her new shul, arrive, including Miri and Todd Davis. The Davises are older than my parents, with grown-up children. Todd has unruly gray curly hair and dresses in these tunic-like hippie shirts that are embarrassing to look at. You’d think he’d be married to someone frumpy, but Miri Davis has the best clothes of any adult I’ve ever met, and her long black hair is always perfectly straight. Tonight she h
as on this gorgeous black skirt with gray silk threaded through it, ending in a gray-silk fringe above her knees, and a silky charcoal top that Sofia would die for. I sneak a picture of her jeweled open-toed pumps resting by the front door to send to Sofia.
Mom calls us all to the table, and we gather around, Abby, Dad and me in our usual spots with the guests fitting in between us. Friday nights we used to light the candles, bless the wine and challah and then eat, but recently Mom has gotten into being more Jewish. She joined the choir at her new shul, and now we have to sing all these songs before we get to the blessings. It’s one thing to sing in shul or in a choir, but somehow singing in your own dining room is embarrassing. Apparently I’m the only one who feels this way, because everyone else closes their eyes and sings with passion.
I stare at the floor and feel angry with Abby. She’s supposed to be my ally, supposed to giggle in the kitchen with me and mock everything, but she’s out there singing her heart out. Abby likes all kinds of music, even religious songs—anything that gives her a chance to show off her voice. Right now she’s harmonizing some ode to God with Mom. When it’s finally over, Mom welcomes everyone to our house, to our Shabbat, and asks us to take a moment of silence to feel mindful and present before we welcome the Shabbat. Will this never be over? The moment of silence seems to stretch forever. Finally we sit down to eat. I’m not that hungry, not even for Dad’s delicious chicken soup.
I keep a low profile throughout dinner, trying to be helpful by serving the main course and clearing plates at the end of the meal. I drizzle fruit compote over the almond-and-orange cake Abby made and pour the tea. I’m hoping dinner will be over soon and the guests will leave, but before I’ve even cleared the dessert plates, Mom has her guitar out, and the guests are moving to the living room to sing some more. Mom says she has a new niggun, a wordless tune, to teach everyone. I hover by the doorway listening for a moment while everyone else raises their voices to God, to sing his or her praises. Does God even care if people sing his or her songs? Maybe s/he looks down and hears people singing and thinks, Suckers!
Mom comes over to me and squeezes my shoulder. She doesn’t look mad at me anymore. “Hey,” she says, “try and enjoy the music.” I squirm under her hand. “You don’t have to sing. Just be here with us and listen.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” I take the opportunity to slink downstairs.
In my room I try listening to music on my phone, but I can still feel the house vibrating with everyone’s joy. I think about the closet, but it won’t dampen the music enough, so I put on a sweater, grab my phone and step into the backyard through the basement door. It has been raining, so everything is still damp, and my breath puffs in the air. I look up at the living-room lights, at the steamed windows. I can hear voices, and a shriek of laughter reaches me. I briefly see Mom in profile in the window, holding a wineglass, before she moves away. Part of me wants to head back inside and be part of that warmth and music, but I can’t do it. I have too much of Zeyda’s sadness and my own inside me. Mom says music is another way to get out of yourself, but not for me.
Even the backyard feels claustrophobic with all the people singing and heating up our house, so I go out the back gate and start wandering down the lane. When I get to the end of our street, I cross the road and head down the next lane. I do this sometimes when I don’t want to see anyone. There’s a whole different world in the lanes. You can peer into people’s backyards and sometimes see into their houses. People have fewer blinds on their back windows. I like to see people eating or watching TV. Once I stopped to watch two children playing with blocks. Now more of the houses have big garages and fences, so you can’t see anything, and I like that too. Then the lane feels like a private space, a secret tunnel.
After a few blocks I check my messages. An hour ago, when we were eating dinner, Fen wrote, Biking Sat am. Dad’s @ 7.
Perfect, I think. That’ll get me out of bed tomorrow. I type back, See you then.
I’m about to put my phone back in my pocket when Paul writes, I’m stuck on math question four.
I stop in the lane. I don’t believe Paul’s stuck on question four, even if he wasn’t at school today. I did it at lunch, and it wasn’t tricky. I spin in a small circle, trying to decide what to write. Before I can make up my mind, Paul writes again: Can u help me?
I take a small breath and then type, Yes. Sofia would be proud of me for these three small letters.
Paul writes, Tomorrow?
No school tomorrow, I write back.
I know.
I inhale deeply. I’m not pretending anymore that Paul is sending me mushroom pictures for no reason. The seconds are ticking by and I need to respond, but I also want to take this moment in. I’m not even sure if I like Paul that way, but he likes me, and that’s pretty awesome, even if it’s crazy and maybe dangerous. I don’t mean dangerous like Paul might be a serial killer. I mean dangerous like I’ll have to talk to him or, I don’t know, do the things Abby is talking about in her play.
Paul is waiting, waiting for me to write back, but I can’t seem to do it. Finally I take another deep breath and write, Busy Saturday, how about Sunday? That way I can change my mind if I need to. That way I can think about it on my bike ride with Fen, and maybe it’ll clear the fog for the rest of the weekend. And maybe it’ll keep me out of the closet, because anything—anticipation, excitement, even dread and anxiety—is better than the closet.
Paul writes, See you then.
I write Yes again, and then I head home. It would be an exaggeration to say I skip home, but my pace is definitely faster. I stop for a brief moment to text Sofia. Meeting P Sunday! And she writes back, Which shoes? which is so ridiculous and Sofia-like that I almost laugh out loud. I write, Suggestions? We go back and forth, Sofia suggesting increasingly crazy and expensive footwear, none of which I own. For the first time in what seems like forever, my body feels like its old normal self, my brain so clear it’s almost like little crystals of light are exploding in it.
My house is still full of people singing and talking. I don’t want to join them, but I don’t want to be alone in my room either. I decide to clean up the kitchen, to start loading the dishwasher. That way I can listen to the music without being right in the center of things and make up for not helping before dinner. Mom starts to sing “Tsur Mishelo,” one of my least-unfavorite Shabbat songs, and I find myself humming along.
Five
IN THE MORNING I WAKE UP to a dim grayish light creeping around my blinds. The fog doesn’t feel too bad, only a thin layer in my head that might melt if I can get up. “Go away, fog,” I whisper, but it rests heavily against the backs of my eyeballs. I stay still a few minutes longer, letting it grow heavier and heavier. If I don’t get up soon and push it away, I’ll miss biking with Fen and spend the whole day stressing about seeing Paul tomorrow. The fog thickens, and I feel as if I might cry, but that would be letting it win. There’s no time for Sudoku this morning. Instead I try one of Dr. Spenser’s meditation strategies. When it doesn’t work I try to imagine my body glowing like a lightbulb until I grow so bright the fog melts away. This is a little better. Finally, I think about meeting Paul tomorrow and then just count to three and roll myself out of bed and into my biking clothes.
Once I’m up and going, I can still feel the fog wanting to press me down, but I create a list of tasks I need to accomplish and I check them off as I go—eat cereal, brush teeth, pin back hair into a low ponytail, find helmet. I leave a note on the counter for Mom and go out the back door to get my bike from the garage before anyone else is awake. Outside, the sky is low, threatening rain, and there’s a thick layer of fog socking in the mountains. It’s as if the way I feel inside has leaked out and covered the city. Maybe it has. Maybe I am the weather, and people will know and scowl at me. Get your problems out of my air, they’ll say. Think some damn happy thoughts and get us some sun. Or maybe the whole city’s depressed, and the weather is dismal because of everyone’s unhappy
thoughts. A chicken-and-egg argument, I think. Still, there are flowers everywhere, and thanks to the rain, the grass is green, the trees are erupting into color, cherry blossoms drift over the sidewalks. Dad’s mom in Winnipeg says there’s still a foot of dirty snow covering the city. I guess things could be worse. I’d rather rain than snow. At least you can still ride here most of the winter.
It’s a short ride to Fen’s, just a few blocks north. Fen’s dad is already loading bikes onto the rack of his SUV, and I silently hand him mine. I go in the back door and sit with Fen for a minute. He’s eating eggs at the kitchen table, not talking yet because it’s early. He raises a hand in greeting, and I wave back. I can hear his feet tapping under the table while the rest of him looks half asleep.
Fen and his dad throw water bottles and energy bars into the car. A few minutes later we’re on the road heading out of the city.
Fen’s parents are divorced, and Fen lives one week with his mom and one week with his dad. He hates both of them, but at least when he’s with his dad there’s biking. Fen’s dad’s parents live in Maple Ridge, an hour’s drive out of the city, so that’s where we’re heading. It’s very flat there, and you can ride around on quiet roads. Since neither Fen nor his dad are big on small talk, I listen to music on my phone, eyes closed. The fog factor now that I’m up and out isn’t great, but it’s not bad. And biking will blast it away.
Fen’s dad parks in his parents’ gravel driveway, and we get our bikes off the rack. The house is still dark, so we don’t need to say hello until we get back. We clip into our pedals and start down the long, empty road, Fen’s dad leading. I’ll fall behind eventually, but I know the route now, and the shortcuts if the ride is too long, which it usually is. My wrists ache as I grip the handlebars, and my quads are wondering why I’m making them move this early in the morning. For the first two kilometers I wish I was back in bed. Why am I doing this anyway? Just to stop thinking about seeing Paul? Just to get rid of the fog?
The Most Dangerous Thing Page 5