Punk Like Me

by JD Glass

  I started to nod in conÞ rmation when my father’s book ß ew across the room, hitting the bridge of my nose, and then my mom was on me like a ß ash, the combined force of her hand and the rings on them sending me backward onto a long, low dresser. I smashed my back on its edge, sending electric shocks through my stomach and up and down my arms and legs, then fell to the ground.

  Oh…my face…hurt. I raised a shaking hand that still tingled to my nose to feel it and found that it was so tender, I could hardly touch it.

  My lip felt wet, and I looked at the ß oor and couldn’t help but wonder, why am I drooling? The gem on one of my mother’s rings had caught on my lip, and I was bleeding to beat the band.

  I was deÞ nitely in shock. I’d never expected this from my parents, I mean, not really. My dad, well, he said stuff, sure, but he always qualiÞ ed it, like he didn’t mean it, at least, not that way, I thought. I thought wrong.

  Something was sticking in my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. I coughed and blood sprayed out. My nose was bleeding; it was fuckin’

  broken, I realized, and I was swallowing the blood coming down on the inside.

  I looked up to see my mom standing there, legs splayed and Þ sts curled, staring at me with an expression on her face I’d never seen before. “Mom?” I choked out, spitting out more blood.

  She rushed over and was on me like the Furies, slapping and punching and kicking. I curled into a ball to protect my head and bleeding face, and she pulled my hair to expose it, raking her nails across my cheek. I curled tighter. “Don’t you ever,” she spat out between blows and kicks, “call me that again!”

  My mother. Who told me that she had waited her whole life to meet me, her Þ rst child, had loved me before I was born, and reminded

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  all three of us that we were blood of her blood and bone of her bone. My mother who called me “morning songbird,” or “morning bird,” or some variation of that every day, because she said I’d started every day of my life singing, even before I could talk, that even when I’d hurt myself or was sad or scared as a little one, I wouldn’t cry, but sang instead, and still did. My mother, Mom, Mommy, the Þ rst name children ever know for God, for love. Gone.

  “Everything we’ve done for you,” she cried, “all the sacriÞ ces we’ve made,” she kicked my back and ribs, “the ballet and the schooling,” she sobbed, “all for nothing.” With both Þ sts she pounded on my hands, which were covering my head, and my forehead bounced on the wood ß oor. I could hardly hold my arms up anymore, I ached everywhere so badly.

  “The bright child, the golden child, the best of the best, and all that talent, that brain, that brilliant mind, wasted, wasted, wasted!” she screamed and emphasized each “wasted” by grabbing my hair and dropping my head on the ß oor. I had no energy left to even try to prevent it anymore.

  Finally, an aching, bloody, eternity later, she stopped. I lay on the ß oor, just simply breathing, swallowing blood, and I Þ gured that was a good sign. If I could still breathe and still bleed, then I was still alive.

  Then again, I hurt so much, maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.

  Cautiously, I wiggled my Þ ngers and toes. Still attached, still working. That was a good start, if I was going to be a member of the land of the living.

  I heard my mother’s footsteps retreat, and using my arms to help me, I forced myself to sit up and look at her, my mother. I set my face in the blankest expression I could muster and, never taking my eyes off her, slowly, painfully, I got to my feet and stood on my own.

  “I had an interesting call from our neighbor Kathy, late last night,” she started, then stopped. Right then and there, I knew that whatever came out now would be a lie or, at least, partly one.

  The same neighbor who had ratted me and my friend out for smoking, Kathy was, like—no, she actually was the village troublemaker. If there was a truth and then an exaggeration, Kathy would take the truth, the exaggeration, and her imagination to create a plausible, but false, tale. For example, the smoking thing? My buddy and I were lighting cigarettes and then watching what happened when we stuck a liquid soap bottle Þ lled halfway with water to the Þ lter and

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  made it “inhale.” We wanted to see if the water changed color. Kathy told my parents that I was inhaling and shoving the cigarettes up my friend’s nose—no joke. Of course, no one believed our side of it. Who believes kids, anyway?

  But no one ever called Kathy on that or anything else, because at least once a year, whether she had to or not, she told the truth, and even her lies had truthful elements, so you were never really sure which would come out of her mouth: the truth or her truth. But she and my mother were good friends, so it wouldn’t do any good to contradict anything the “wonderful friend” Kathy said. They were so close, her and my mom I mean, that we had to call Kathy “Aunt Kathy.” Get the picture?

  She’d gotten us, meaning Nicky and Nanny and I, into trouble many times before, and only once had it been an unvarnished truth.

  “Nanny overheard a conversation you were having with a friend about being a bisex, or a gay or a…a les…” she almost gagged but forced the word out Þ nally, “a lezzie, and she’s afraid of you, that you might do something to her one night. So she told Kathy because she didn’t know who else to tell out of fear that if you found out she told us, you might kill her or something.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” I asked in disbelief. “How can you possibly believe that? I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt Nanny. I love her!” I was beyond shock.

  “I spoke with Nanny when we went to dinner tonight, and she told your father and me very clearly that she is afraid of you.” Oh my God, Nanny was afraid of me? Why didn’t she just talk to me, ask me? Maybe my mother misunderstood, maybe Nanny was afraid for me, or maybe she was afraid of the way I liked to dress. Why didn’t she talk to me? We’d never had problems like that before, even if we did squabble from time to time. She asked me everything, and I shared everything I could with her.

  She was my baby sister. I had been the Þ rst one, before grandparents or aunts and uncles or family friends even, to hold her when my parents brought her home. They, meaning my parents and the baby, had walked in the door the whole family had crowded around, laughing and smiling, and had asked that I be put in this big plush armchair in the baby’s room. And while everyone asked to hold the baby, my mother shook her head no and smiled, carrying the little blanket bundle over to the chair I’d been placed in.

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  “Nina,” my mother smiled at me, her big beautiful smile, “this is your baby sister, Nancy,” and she put her in arms I hadn’t realized I’d already stretched out.

  “Nanny,” I repeated as best I could, and I looked down at the tiny little face and the delicate lashes over apple-bright cheeks. “Nanny,” I said again, liking the way it sounded, easier than Nancy. She smelled nice.

  “Here, Nina.” My father came over and crouched next to me, handing me a small baby bottle Þ lled with what I thought was water, and with him guiding my hand, I helped and witnessed Nanny’s Þ rst meal at home.

  “Come here, Nicky.” My mother reached for my brother, who had hidden under the crib. “Come meet your little sister Nancy, help Nina feed her.” And before I knew it, Nicky’s hand was next to mine, and it was just the two of us, my father letting us do this on our own.

  “Nanny,” Nicky said softly, and gently reached to touch the little half-moons of the baby’s eyebrows with a tentative Þ nger.

  “Oh no, don’t…” someone started to say, but my mother shushed them. “It’s okay, Nicky, it’s your little sister.” Nicky gently smoothed the tiny little brow in peace, then looked up at our father. “Boy?” he asked hopefully, and everyone laughed.

  “A little girl.” My father smiled at him. “A beautiful baby girl.”

  “Brother,” Nicky sa
id Þ rmly. “Boy.”

  “That’s right,” our mother came over and said, “you’re a big boy and a big brother now, just like Nina is your big sister. Nina, you’re not just a big sister anymore, you’re the oldest now.” My eyes widened, and I looked up at my mother, wondering what she meant.

  “You have to love and protect and care for your little brother and baby sister because they’re smaller and younger than you. They are blood of your blood and bone of your bone,” and my mother gently stroked my arm to illustrate, “and you’re my big girl, okay?” she explained gently, and I nodded solemnly. This was a big thing, and I wasn’t really sure what it meant, but if Mommy asked, I would do it, because I loved Mommy and Daddy and Nicky and baby Nanny, who was tiny and couldn’t take care of herself.

  Someone reached to take the baby from me, saying something about their turn or something, but I put the bottle down and, scowling Þ ercely, used both my arms to hug the little sleeper and hunched my

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  body over her. “My Nanny,” I said, forcing myself deeper into the chair and away from the hands that weren’t mine or Nicky’s or Mommy’s and Daddy’s. Protect the baby. I would, no matter what that meant.

  How could anyone, especially my family, my parents, Nanny, possibly think I could even remotely dream of hurting my baby sister, blood of my blood, bone of my bone, even this many years later? My Nanny.

  But then, I reß ected, the one time Kathy had gotten us in trouble for something true, it had been Nanny who told her, and Nanny herself was also known to stretch the truth on occasion. Kathy had probably seen Kerry and me or something, or maybe just had a suspicion, then had buttonholed Nanny in the last few days with a few gossipy questions.

  This was not only possible, this was actually probable.

  A thin little wisp of anger curled in my stomach and went straight to my heart, killing some of my affection for my baby sister. Fuck her.

  I would avoid her then, if she was so fucking afraid. But it hurt, all the same.

  “And your father,” my mother indicated him where he sat, silent this whole time, just watching, “tells me that Nicky and Kerry spoke with him at dinner.”

  What? They didn’t come to my meet; they all went to dinner, to talk about me? What the fuck?

  “Nicky told your father that Kerry told him, that on Sunday you, that you, tried to force yourself on that poor girl,” she stated, her voice shaking.

  I glared at my father, who was watching me with a tight, smug little smile.

  “Are you people completely fucking insane? Hello? It’s me—

  your,” and I twisted my mouth a little, “daughter? I would never do a thing like that. You raised me, you should fucking know me better!

  I’m the same person I was last week, the person who would never, ever willingly hurt another, and especially never do a thing like that!” I caught my breath in anger at the injustice of it, then went on.

  “Besides, I talked to Joey tonight. I was home by nine on Sunday, Jack was there at nine thirty, and Joey says that Jack and Kerry, the girl that Dad,” and I looked at him directly, “always calls a ‘dyke,’” I spat that word out and let it hang in the air, “did it that night with Jack, so go fuckin’ ask him, ask both of them, before you’re so damned quick to

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  believe someone else before you believe me.” And I stopped, wordless, shocked at the shots that were coming in from all sides.

  My mother’s face was surprised by my revelation, my father’s had gone blank. Apparently, this was news to them. Well and good, then. It had been news to me, too.

  My brain jumped back into gear and then into overtime. “And another thing…if that was true, why in the world would she have come over and stayed last night? Why would she and Nicky come to my meet? Did you even stop to think about that?” I stood there, dripping scarlet drops on the ß oor, just breathing in and out. “I can’t believe you people.”

  There was silence as my mother looked abashed. She sat back down on her edge of the bed and glanced over at my father to see what he would say, but he refused to meet her eyes. Instead, he glared at me with such vehemence, and with such anger, that I knew, deep within, that Nicky had never said that to my father. My father had lied, had taken Kathy’s story and added a lie to it to further egg my mother on, to make her angry enough to hate me, her beloved child, and I would think, no matter what happened, that it was my mother’s fault. I would blame her, be hurt by her, not by him.

  It was a great plan, except he’d forgotten one very important thing: I wasn’t as stupid as he loved to say I was every morning of my misbegotten life. I curled my lip at him, glaring back just as strongly.

  “You lose,” he spat out, “you lose if you do this.” I just stared at him, waiting.

  “You can’t do this,” he continued, his voice full of anger and solemnity.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Forget Annapolis. Forget West Point. Forget ROTC and Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. You wanted Princeton, right? For engineering math and science? Who’s going to pay for it if you don’t have that scholarship? We’re not. We’re not paying anything—” my father said, but my mother put a hand on his arm to shush him.

  Any blood that wasn’t falling from my face fell down to my feet.

  Oh my God, that was true. I couldn’t go into the service and become an ofÞ cer, couldn’t become a pilot, couldn’t become an engineer, couldn’t become an astronaut. Over something really stupid and insigniÞ cant.

  My body shook so badly now I thought my guts would fall on the

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  JD GLASS

  ß oor.

  My mother looked at me. “It’s very simple, Nina. You do this our way, and we’ll take care of it. We’ll work it out, no matter what we need to do. You don’t want to join the military, you don’t want to be an ofÞ cer anymore, Þ ne, that’s not a life for everyone and you don’t have to do it, even though you’ve been preparing your whole life for this, and why we sent you to your high school. You don’t have to say you’re, a, a bi, um, a whatever, to get out of it. You don’t want to be in the armed forces, we understand.”

  She was very serious and solemn, and waited to see my reaction before she continued, and I’ll be honest, I’d started to rock side to side a bit in agitation and agony. This was my life we were talking about, after all. “Do it your way, Nina, persist in this, and we will not support you. I will not support any monstrosity in my home.” My legs in a slight horse stance, I now stood stock-still and stared intently. “I’m not doing anything wrong,” I said in a low tone to my mother directly. “He…” and I gestured in my father’s direction to my mother. I would have said more, but my mother held up her hand for my silence and I complied, listening hard.

  “The law says we have to provide for you until you are of age, which is eighteen. If you decide to live here until that time, we will provide you with food and shelter, but nothing else, until you are no longer our legal obligation, which your father and I have decided will be when you graduate, if you graduate, from high school, instead of your actual eighteenth birthday.” Considering my birthday was in winter, that was a good thing, I thought grimly.

  My mother continued, “We will not sign transfer papers or write you notes or sign anything with your name on it. If you decide to go to a different school anyway, you will not live here. If you do not want to live here, we will not pay for you to live anywhere else. Should you decide not to live here, we will have you declared a runaway and a criminal, and you’ll be taken to a home for juvenile delinquents, where you’ll be treated like an animal—”

  My father interjected at this point, “You’ll have a new uniform, three squares a day, and continue your,” he sneered, “education, and then you’ll learn, you’ll really learn. How to sleep with your eyes open, where to walk, where to look or not look, so you don’t get gang-raped by a bunch of t
hugs.” His face had the dim shine of animated wax in the light from the TV that was still on. “That’ll Þ x you, Þ x you good,

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  too.” He seemed almost pleased. “I bet,” he paused a moment, a strange expression on his face, “you’ll beg—”

  “Roger,” my mother turned to him and said sharply, “that’s enough!” She turned back to me and placed her hands in her lap, composing herself before she continued, and continue she did. “You will have to take care of your tuition, your uniforms, your sports and all of your other expenses, including your transportation and all of your exam and application fees, yourself. You will still have household responsibilities, to pay for your room and board, and you will still follow all of our rules. You have no rights, except to eat and sleep here.

  You have no phone privileges. You may read your books. You may, of course, use the washer and dryer. Also, if you quit any of your school activities, you will no longer be welcome in this home. You must continue to do it all, without our support.

  “Once you graduate, you may continue to live here, but you will have to pay rent. We will not support you in any way. You are not our child.”

  My mother stared at me and I stared right back, wordless and now numb. So far, I had understood. I was still to make dinner, do dishes, do the laundry, somehow pay for school, study for school, take care of all my extracurricular obligations as well, or be homeless. Gee, what a bargain.

  “If you persist in this path, Nina, and you are able to do this, Þ nish high school, go to college, take care of yourself Þ nancially, if you can do all these things and not become a depraved sex-and drug-addicted alcoholic monster, I will still not love you. I will respect you, but I will not love you and I will not help you.”

  The rocking and shaking Þ nally stopped, and I just stared.

  Something, and I don’t know what it was really, grew within me. It had the power, the strength of anger, but it was different somehow.