by Izzy Daniels
A rage sweeps through me and I fling the head of iceberg at the floor where it bursts apart. Tears prick at my eyes. If I could take her place I would, my mind shouts. Gradually the rage crumbles into sorrow. I fall to my knees and start picking up the wilted pieces. I want to beg for mercy, but I have no one to beg it of and no way to earn it.
“Bella, you okay? What happened to the lettuce?” Joe is standing behind me. I blink furiously, trying to clear my eyes, before standing up and facing him.
“Oh, it looked at me funny. Can’t have that, the other lettuces will see and then it will be mutiny.” I smile at him and he chuckles. “Not to worry, it’s under control.” Is it?
…
Amanda arrives an hour later to help with the lunch crowd. I’m still feeling lost and attempting to cover it up with my normal behavior is making my mood sour.
“Hey, Emma, were you downtown last night?” a voice asks. Amanda is standing next to me at the soda fountain while I refill a cup of sweet tea, light ice.
“Oh, hi. Yes, at Ubiquitous for the Halloween thing,” I reply.
“Oh my god. I was there. I knew that was you”, she says. “Is that your girlfriend? I’ve seen her in here, like a bunch, but I wasn’t sure you guys were together until I saw you tonguing each other last night. She’s super hot.” My eyebrows shoot up as she continues. “So are you, like, a lesbian or just one of those getting the full experimentation girls? Or do you play both sides of the field, like me?”
“Wow, um, okay. Yes, I’m a lesbian. I’m pretty new to it, but it’s not just an experiment.” A full flush takes over as I get images of last night. Yep, definitely a lesbian. But I’m pretty unsure of where Brooke and I stand on the whole girlfriend thing. That just adds to my bad mood. “When did you know…?” I trail off but she gets my meaning.
“Oh, I’ve always known. I was on the playground kissing boys and girls, I just go for what I want,” she says with a shrug, like it’s always that easy.
“I have to go run this to the table,” I say, putting a halt to this discussion. On my way back to booth four, I marvel again at her confidence. She’s just herself with no apologies, like Brooke. Brooke. I’m trying not to think about her or miss her, but it hasn’t been successful. I shuffle to the door and lead a family of four to my last open booth. I rush around getting drinks, running appetizers, and taking orders. The familiarity of it is helping and the busier the lunch rush gets, the better I feel.
It’s nearly time for me to get off work, I have no tables left. So, I’m just sitting rolling silverware and it hits me once again. Holy crap . I had sex. Lots. Lots of real, actual sex . When my desire for Brooke consumed me, my nervousness took a back seat. I’m lost in the reverie of her face, her touch, her kisses. I can’t believe I had sex with a girl. Brooke’s naked body was in my arms. Her stunning, soft, curvaceous and astonishingly sexy body was moaning beneath me.
I never thought I could be that close to someone, be that vulnerable. My insecurities were still there, but I trusted her. She let me set the pace and she made sure I was prepared for moving forward. Standing in the center of the restaurant reviewing last night, I’m nearly overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness and her tenderness.. An urge to rush over and be in her arms swells within me. Even if she thinks she loves me, which she can’t, it doesn’t have to change the way things have been. She knows the truth about who I am and she still wanted to see me tomorrow. I find a secluded spot and pull my phone out of my apron, the time reads 3:48 p.m. I have a text from Brooke at 1:32 p.m.
Hi. Hows work? p.s. I miss you. My chest squeezes.
Workish. Did you finish your paper? I miss you more.
Her response appears seconds later.
Nah, paper shmaper. I smile to myself. I can hear her voice saying it.
Can I come over? I ask her. I know I should go home because I will have to face my uncle. I have never missed giving him money on a Saturday. I really don’t want him to clean out my bank account again. So, I’ll only go to Brooke’s for an hour and then I’ll go back home.
…
Brooke opens her door as I reach the top of the staircase. She’s wearing baggy gray sweatpants and a yellow camisole and for the first time since I’ve met her, she’s not wearing her black eyeliner. She looks tired but still happy to see me when I meet her at the door. Her arms wrap around me and I sink into her. I shuffle my sneakers so I don’t step on her bare toes and just rest my head against her shoulder.
“Hey,” she whispers into my hair.
“Hi,” I sigh. She releases me and pulls me inside. I slip off my shoes by the door and drop my bag. I lead us into her room and bring her down next to me on the bed where we crawl across her covers and I open up my arm for her to snuggle into, which she does. Her in my arms is one of my favorite things in the world. My happiness at her closeness war with the remorse I feel for upsetting her this morning. “So, I was thinking. I’m really sorry about earlier. You took that all better than I could have hoped.”
“As I’ve told you, you don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry I just sprung.. that on you,” she says carefully.
“No, don’t be,” I demand. “It’s been a long time since anyone said that they love me and I don’t think I deserve your love, or anyone’s, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like what we have. You’re a bright spot in my life and as long as you want to have me in yours, I want to be in it. Which brings me to my big question.” Trepidation zips across my skin so I take a deep breath to bolster me. Her face turns toward me, her forehead slightly creasing with anticipation. Without further delay, the words spring from my lips. “Will you be my girlfriend?”
I can see the surprise all over her face a second before she props herself on an elbow and kisses my face all over in quick pecks. She pulls back, grinning ear to ear.
“Yes. A thousand times, yes,” Brooke merrily agrees. Her lips are on mine, and with a whoosh , the butterflies in my stomach take over. She’s my girlfriend. Maybe I’ll stay more than an hour . My hand slides inside the waistband of her sweats. Everything is going to be just fine .
...
I can barely shove my chair into place before I collapse on the floor, avoiding landing on my arm. Despair suffocates me. That happiness that was just shining down on me, my Brooke glow, was violently taken from me. My uncle has never hurt me in anger before. It might not seem like it, but his behavior is calculated. They are my punishments for being alive, for being a parasite on his life. I accept that. They have always been constant, consistent.
But tonight, this was out of anger. He always keeps the bruises in places easily hidden. I’ve never so much as received a backhand to my face. Well, not anymore . The stinging and throbbing in my jaw and cheek are a testament to his savage rage. His yelling turned belligerent even after I gave him his money. The deviation in the routine seemed to send him over the edge. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to the Halloween party or not come home.
He doesn’t usually ask about my whereabouts because he has ways to make his expectations known, but for the last few weeks my time with Brooke has been changing my schedule. My left wrist is in so much pain. I don’t care. It was worth it for the night with Brooke . To be close to her, to sleep next to her, would be worth anything. Without consent, tears flow down my face. But instead of fighting them, I release them. I let out the pain, the despair, the fear welling up inside of me. I push my face into the carpet to try and muffle it; I don’t want him to know. Everything is changing, I’m changing .
My cries have morphed into pathetic whimpering when I hear my phone go off. I don’t have the energy to get up so I use my foot and hook it in the strap of my bag on the floor and scoot it closer. I use my right arm to dig it out and see that it’s a text from Brooke.
Is it tomorrow yet? I miss my girlfriend
My heart lurches at seeing her call me her girlfriend. A taste of that glow, the one I get in the bubble with her, creeps in. I miss it, miss her. The pain in my body is forcefully inva
ding the happy thoughts so I push it away harder and surround myself in Brooke. I try remembering the joy she gives me. But sudden doubt surfaces. If I believe I deserve punishment and pain, how can I let myself be with Brooke? She causes none of that, only happiness and pleasure. But I want her. I don’t want to not deserve her. My thoughts turn to my mom. She was the last person to love me and I let her be murdered. I wish I could talk to her. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am. If she could answer me, would she want me to be punished for failing her or would she want me to be happy? Would the penance I’ve already paid the last seven years be enough for her?
The ache in my face has subsided somewhat during my internal musings. I click the camera open on my phone and use it for a mirror as I examine the damage. The skin is still mostly bright red with some darker spots which means that it will definitely be a bruise. It covers the right side of my cheek and jaw. Panic claws at me. I can’t hide this . I try to calm myself with rational thoughts. I can look up how to cover it with make-up on the internet. I don’t own any, but I could easily go out in the morning to the drugstore and buy some. I might not have to miss class, but there’s no way I can show up at Brooke’s even if I get it covered. She already sees too much. I switch over to her message and try to figure what I can say to cancel on her without her somehow thinking I regret asking her to be my girlfriend.
I miss my girlfriend, too. I might be up all night with homework. I’ll text in the morning but I might sleep in. Then in the morning I can buy myself some more time before I see her again.
Oh. Okay. Well, good luck with the studies. Goodnight, Em.
I can’t bring myself to text her back because I hate this feeling of dishonesty. Even when the beatings started when I was twelve, I knew to hide them. I don’t know how. Instinctively, I suppose. It was like at the same time my body was hurting, the guilt I felt lightened. Then when the pain of my punishments faded, I would be punished again and the cycle has just continued for years.
But now, it feels so wrong to hide it from Brooke. I’ve shared so much with her. Yet, I don’t think she would understand. I grimace as I pull myself up to a sitting position and scoot to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I tie an ace bandage around my left wrist. It really needs ice to keep the swelling down, but I can’t go out there until he’s asleep. I can still hear him growling at the television, so I have to wait. I carefully lift up my shirt to inspect the damage. My ribs and abdomen are splotched with red but my arm took the brunt of his punches. I can’t see my back at all, but it only feels tender from tensing my muscles.
I pull out my pajamas and listen at the door for a long time. When I can’t hear him or the t.v. anymore, I push the chair out of the way and cross over to the bathroom and shut the door gently, I quickly wash up as best I can before I switch to my pajamas. When I get back to my room, I lock and barricade the door again. I’ll wait for an hour and then sneak out for some ice. I grab a flashlight from under my bed and turn it on before I switch off my light. Using the flashlight, I find my bag and drag it over to my bed. I pull out my tylenol and my bottle of water. Might as well get some homework done.
I have a ten page paper due right before Thanksgiving, which becomes a twenty page paper at the end of the semester. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but I am slightly concerned with my left arm and its typing capability. The bulk of it is done, it just requires editing and composing a reference page. Ordinarily, this is not problem. As my ancient laptop boots up, I analyze my life.
School has been my number one priority, since it’s the best chance I have at opening and running a successful restaurant. My mom always talked about us opening one together. She wanted to name it after us; It would be smaller and informal and she wanted to create the menus. She loved cooking, but only succeeded in taking a few classes before it became too hard with a baby. She had me when she was really young and never looked for any help, financial or otherwise. My father was never in the picture and the only family my mom had was her mom and brother. She didn’t talk to either of them, but she would never tell me why. With bills to pay, she started waitressing instead of going to culinary school. My mom was intelligent and dedicated so she was able to work her way up, eventually becoming the manager. She always meant to go back to school and get a formal culinary education. I saw the pamphlets she stuck in her cookbooks. But she never got the chance.
In that way, we are a lot alike. My true love is cooking. It’s exhilarating and satisfying to create something for people to enjoy. It’s an outlet for artistic expression and gives me a sense of adventure, of accomplishment. The only reason I have been working so hard to make the restaurant happen is because I want to do it in honor of my mom. Maybe as a form of atonement? But right now, alone in the dark, I can take out my real dream and look at it. I want to go to culinary school more than anything. I don’t want to take business classes that bore me to tears. I want to learn about different cultures through food. I want to travel everywhere and immerse myself. If only it were that simple. I mean I robbed my mother of her dream. It wouldn’t be right to live out mine when I destroyed hers. Would it? I used to think I had all of the answers, until Brooke. The computer finally flickers to life, so I force my attention to it.
I have to figure out the right format for referencing an online article found in an e-print of a professional journal, because it’s so ridiculously nuanced that I’ll never remember it. It’s way slower going with one hand than I even expected it. My frustration is skyrocketing. Somehow,I keep highlighting an entry and deleting it when I try to type in the title of the article. I try to move my wrapped wrist and the pain is so intense that I break out into a sweat. I finally manage to use the tip of my index finger. If I type gently, it doesn’t hurt much, but it is so exhausting. I save my document and shut down, shoving everything back into my bag, trying to keep all of my emotions at bay. After I triple check the sounds in the house, I tiptoe to the kitchen, holding my breath as I pass his room. I quietly pull a plastic sandwich bag from a drawer and remove a tray of ice from the freezer. Rather than risk waking him up with the noise from the ice, I just bring it all back into my room. I stuff as much ice as I can into the bag, wrap it in a towel, and set my alarm extra early so I can sneak the tray back into the freezer before it’s found missing. My body deflates when I push myself under the covers. Every part of me is beyond weary. I lay on my side so I can set the ice between my right cheek and my left wrist. It’s not very comfortable but the ice is a welcome discomfort and it isn’t long before darkness blankets my thoughts and I slip into sleep.
It’s only a few hours before my alarm startles me awake. My body is stiff and resistant to movement. My pillow and blankets are wet from the melted ice. When my limbs cooperate, I press a towel into the wet spots. I quietly make it to the kitchen and refill the ice tray and put it away. I follow my normal routine, grab clothes and a quick shower. In the mirror, I can see that I am going to have my work cut out for me with the bruise. It’s a fierce dark red but luckily it’s on my lower jaw, close to my ear. My hair can help hide it from view. I check my wrist and it’s swollen and sore with fingerprint bruises from when he moved it out of the way of his final blow. I do a full body inspection and don’t see any visible marks on my stomach or back. I keep my hair down and run my fingers through it over and over in the hopes that it dries bigger and frizzier. I wrap my arm again and slip out of the house with my bag.
When I pull into the drugstore, I take some more pain medicine before pulling out my phone and researching what makeup to get. It says to get green tinted concealer for red bruises, foundations, and a powder. It also recommends distraction makeup, like a bright colored eyeshadow or lip in order to keep the eyes there and away from the bruise. I can already tell I’m going to fail at this but I have to try. I grab a basket and head for an aisle appropriately labelled. There are hundreds of tiny packages hanging there. I pick as best as I can and try to match my skin tone while also picking a mascara, a blush, and a dark pink lip glos
s. I want to go to Brooke and beg her to help me, but then I would have to show her and explain it, but she won’t understand it. How could she? I’m not sure I understand it anymore. What would happen if I told her? Would she finally be disgusted with me? I don’t know. I can’t risk telling her. After I buy everything, I use their bathroom to put it on as the website instructed me.
I cake the stuff on and it covers how obvious the bruise is, but it still shows up like a shadow under the foundation. But it’s not as noticeable, at least. If I keep my hair over my face, I can get through the day. I’ll reapply before work. I’m so tired. I need coffee. I wash up and pack everything away into my bag. Time to head to school. Definitely not to Brooke’s. I’ll have to come up with something to text her, some lie to tell her. I hate this . How is this my life?
12
Brooke
I’m already sitting at my coffee table, hoping to hear from Emma when she texts me.
Sorry about this morning, headed to school to finish homework. Definitely see you Friday. Hope you have a good day.
Lame. Yeah right if she thinks I’m going all week without seeing her. We’re girlfriends, now. Suppress inner girly squeal . Our schedules conflict a little bit, but I can catch her at work. I can always use a bowl of pasta. But first, I seriously need to finish my paper due at the end of the week. Blargh. I settle myself into my computer chair and try to get to work. Really, I do.
But somehow I have my search engine open and I’m typing in Emma’s mom’s name and where she was from: Martha Rhodes + restaurant shooting + Maryland. Several thousand hits, but the one I’m looking for is third down. It’s a news report which reports the events of the shooting before it segues into the uprising in gang violence. The article describes three armed teenagers robbing the restaurant and some eyewitness quotes. The security cameras showed the shooters making everyone get on the floor except the manager on duty, Martha Rhodes. A man, Paul Sherman, age 37, was dining at the establishment, Luca’s Ristorante, and tried to step in front of Ms. Rhodes when the shooter shoved him and discharged his weapon at the victim. The autopsy reports that Ms. Rhodes was shot in the head and died instantly at the scene. The shooters fled and were later apprehended. Ms. Rhodes leaves behind a daughter, age twelve.