by Kai Strand
He gestures for me to sit on the couch, an embarrassed half-grin quirking his mouth. “I had chicken pox when I was eight years old. My grandma sent me a kalanchoe plant and a get well card. It’s a pretty standard florist plant because it’s hardy. I was hooked.”
I study the plant he pointed at with its delicate orange blooms. “Is that the same plant she sent you?”
He nods. “It’s still around, though she isn’t. She died the next year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. She lived in Illinois. I never really knew her well.”
There’s an awkward silence while we look around the room at the jungle.
“There’s a little old lady that lives down the block,” Rod says. “I’ve been helping around her house—replacing her showerhead, fixing her screen, handy man stuff—for a few years now. She gives me cuttings of her plants. I root them and plant them. Sometimes I’ll have some extra cash to buy something new, but usually it’s all I can do to buy a new container and soil.”
His head drops, and he fiddles with the edge of his glass. I wonder if he admitted more than he wanted.
“It’s really beautiful. I’m so impressed with how many of the plants are blooming.” I take a sip of tea. “Are you passing on your knowledge to D so he can keep them alive after you’re off to college?”
Rod looks at me, his brow slightly furrowed.
“Oh, are you staying local for college?” I’ve said something wrong.
“No college for me.” He sighs deeply, like his prison sentence has been administered and he knows he has to do the time. “I’ll finish up community service just in time to graduate. Then I’ll have to get a fulltime job.”
“Oh. You could take some classes at night. Or online.”
Again, he just looks at me without saying anything and I can tell I’m somehow being ignorant. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the foliage casts a yellow glow on him. His cheeks are sharp angles, his lips defined. The golden light does mouth-watering things to his hair and eyes, making him look otherworldly. I don’t want to upset him or disappoint him, but I have no idea what I’ve said wrong and it’s clear he isn’t going to offer an explanation.
I bite my bottom lip before saying, “My confidence is exuding again, isn’t it?”
There’s a full half a minute that Rod stares at me without reacting and I think I’ve pissed him off completely. But then his shoulders relax, and he gives me a sad smile. “Yeah. A little.”
“I’m sorry.” I want to grab his hand, but he makes me so nervous. “I don’t mean to do that. Please, help me understand.”
Rod sucks breath in through his nose. His nostrils flare. He lets his head fall back against the couch, exposing his neck. My fingers itch to skim down the long line. Press against his pulse. I want to absorb his troubles. Take them all away. See him smile and laugh. But when he tips his head back up, his eyes are stormy and troubled.
“There’s no college for me, Lola.” His gaze flits to the front door as if he expects it to open. “We don’t have the money for it. Plus, I have to get a fulltime job. I have to stick around for D.”
He growls the last sentence and glares at the still closed doorway. It makes me pause. “Why do you have to stick around for D? He’s old enough to take care of himself after school while your mom works. Right?”
Rod’s knee bounces incessantly, shaking the entire couch. If steam could escape his nostrils, the picture of his anger would be complete. I reach forward and settle my hand on his knee until it stops. Rod’s gaze lifts slowly to mine.
“Tell me, Rod. Why do you have to stick around for D?”
Pain shatters his expression and my hand inadvertently tightens on his knee, but I remain silent. So many emotions are warring within Rod that I know he needs time to think through what he wants to tell me. I loosen my grip, but when I lift my hand, Rod captures it with his own and presses it back in place. I put my mug on the coffee table and scoot closer so that I can wrap my free hand over his.
“My mom is nothing like you,” he whispers.
I pull back in surprise, but he grips my hand, keeping me close.
“She isn’t strong, or independent. She depends on drugs, alcohol, and men to get her through life.”
I squeeze his hand, which still holds my other hand, which still holds his knee. He’s staring at our connection like it’s his lifeline.
“She goes through tons of jobs, none of them pay well. She blows any extra money we have on booze and sometimes money we should use for rent on drugs. Though mostly her men supply her drugs.”
Rod’s eyes are hooded, like maybe he hopes not to see the story he’s telling. When I see tears flood them, I know I’m about to hear something I don’t want to hear.
“I came home from a friend’s one night. Late. We’d been drinking, so I was a bit lit, but not out of control. I didn’t want Mom to know I’d been drinking, so I snuck in quietly.” Rod’s next words are choked off. He clears his throat and starts again. “I was halfway down the hall when I heard D whimpering. I thought it was a bad dream or something.”
Rod’s whole body starts shaking like D’s was earlier. I feel a moment of panic before I realize it’s with anger and anguish, not illness, and my panic morphs to reluctance.
“I turned into D’s room almost giggling, imagining the scary dream he was probably having and how I could tease him about it. He’d recently started having bad dreams.” Rod slams his eyes shut. “About monsters, you know? Yeah well, I found out why. Mom’s newest boyfriend was…”
Again, his voice strangles to a halt. The shaking is more violent. I finally realize what he walked in on and I’m too stunned to react.
“I lost it. I beat the guy to a pulp.”
Rod’s grip tightens to the point of pain, but I’m still too stunned to react.
“I wasn’t really even coherent while I did it. I was apparently loud enough to rouse my drugged out mom. She tried to pull me off, but I was too out of control. My elbow even caught her jaw and gave her a good bruise. Finally, I heard D. He was screaming my name. Sobbing. I reached for him, but there was blood all over my hands. Then I realized it was all over me and I turned to look at the asshole I’d beaten, and I thought I’d killed him.”
His voice breaks and he runs his free hand over his face. He finally opens his eyes, but he stares at the shadowy ceiling. “God, Lola. I thought I’d killed him.”
I pull my hands free, throw my arms around him, crawl completely onto the couch—tucking my knees under my chin—so I’m as close to him as possible. He drops his head onto my shoulder and wraps his arms around my waist. I’m twisted in an awkward position, but still don’t feel close enough.
He talks against my neck, the vibrations warm and intimate. “I wasn’t even that upset at first, but as I came out of the anger induced haze, reality started to dawn, and I got really scared. Luckily the jerk was still alive. The police showed up and…” he squeezes me again, almost involuntarily. “God, what they put D through to prove that asshole’s guilt. And then they almost took us away from Mom. I promised to take better care of D. The lady down the street stepped forward that night to tell the cops they were crazy if they thought separating us was a good idea. A couple days later one of my teachers sent child services and the cops a character reference for me. I didn’t even realize the guy knew I was alive, but the letter was really nice. Personal, you know? Like he’d noticed everything I’d ever said or done in class.”
“Why are you serving community service if that guy’s the one who committed a crime?” It’s only then I realize I’m crying.
Rod lifts his head and seems to study my tears. He brings a thumb up to my cheek and gently wipes them away. “I beat him. He was pretty pissed at first. Calling me all sorts of names and threatening all sorts of things to all three of us. He’d call. Stop by. It was a nightmare. But he was in enough trouble on his own. I think his lawyer suggested he shouldn’t stoke the fire by try
ing to sue for hospital bills. Because he just shut up. I got off with community service. He’s in jail.”
“Rod, I’m so sorry. For D. For you. For your mom.”
“Don’t be sorry for my mom.”
I jerk away from the vehemence in his voice.
“She doesn’t deserve your pity. She failed. I mean, I failed too. I left D alone. But it’s her job to keep us safe and she failed. She has failed again and again.”
“Okay.” I don’t have a clue how to respond. I understand what he’s saying, but I’m having such a hard time believing the depth of her failure. I’ve seen movies, read books where characters live in bad families and horrible things happened because of it, but I never really equated it to reality. Heck, I’ve witnessed Cyn’s horrible reality for years and even that doesn’t seem to be the same kind of neglect that Rod and D have seen over the years. But why? Because Cyn’s parents have money to throw at her? Because she has a plush home to live in? Food to eat? Healthcare and legal representation? Or is it because I’m used to it? But isn’t the neglect and crime these parents have brought into their children’s lives the same in the end?
I’m starting to see why Rod accused me of being privileged. I’m so ignorant. The depth of my ignorance is beginning to astound me and smother me all at once. I do have everything. But it isn’t anywhere close to enough if it can’t fix Rod’s life or Cyn’s life.
“I can’t leave D,” Rod says. “If I could take D away, I would. But I won’t leave him here alone.”
I think of them together the night we went out for pie. Rod’s over-protectiveness. Their easy camaraderie. D’s absolute trust in his big brother. A pulse of envy shoots through me. I don’t know anything like their relationship. And I never have. I feel like I’ve been living on the top layer of life. Skating. Skimming. Never getting my head wet.
Maybe I don’t have everything.
“I don’t blame you,” I say. I rest my cheek on his head and give him an awkward hug. “I get it.”
Chapter 30
I study myself in the mirror and hope I chose the right outfit. The looks I got from my fellow contestants ranged from disgust to shock. If Cyn saw me, she’d be horrified. For a second, I think about snap chatting a selfie to her just for the shock factor, but I’m too worried it’ll throw me off later, when I need all of my concentration and most importantly my confidence.
It has been two and a half weeks since I helped Rod and D, but I haven’t seen or heard from Rod. I don’t know if D is better. I don’t know if Rod regrets opening up to me. All I know is I haven’t been able to get them out of my mind. Their situation. Their circumstances. Their tenacity. Their bravery. Everything that makes up them.
I smoosh my lips together to smear my almost black lipstick, check to make sure my teeth are clear of it and smooth my hair needlessly. It’s pulled tight against my head into a low bun. I almost wish I’d looked for ways to temporarily dull the color. Strawberry blonde is too bright and far too cheery for my severe look. I imagine myself on stage, standing in my form fitting black clothing against the black curtain backdrop, all but my face—and hair, darn it—should disappear. With the single spotlight directed upward from stage level, I should have dark circles under my eyes, shadows on my cheeks, over my eyes, and under my nose. I’m counting on a lot of dramatic shadows. The image sends a thrill of excitement and nervous energy through me.
I am ready.
The last few words of my bio, as well as my name, rings through the auditorium as I enter from back stage. The gal who introduced me wheels the podium off stage as she exits. The house lights dim and murmurs spatter in the audience at the unexpected darkening of the room. People don’t usually stage their speeches like I have. Miss Bell wasn’t too thrilled about it at first, but I won her over in the end. When I step on my mark, the last of the house lights darken and then the single spot gleams upward. I’m momentarily blinded. Not that there is anything to see with the room dark. I’m careful not to react, because I want my image to be as powerful as I hope my speech will be. I tip my chin upward a bit to make sure my face is deep with shadows. I swallow to wet my throat and ready it for the voice modulations I have planned. And finally, I begin.
“I am poor. Downtrodden. I earn minimum wage. I have two jobs. My ends don’t meet. They never meet.
I am rich. Privileged. I own your job. I work twenty hours a day. My wife and my mistress can’t meet. They can never meet.
I am female. Marginalized. I earn twenty percent less. I’m good at my job. My kids have to eat. They have to eat.
I am black. Oppressed. I don’t earn a thing. I can’t get a job. I feel the heat. My life’s the streets.
I am Hispanic. I am Asian. I am…
Go ahead. Slot me into a category. Call me white. Call me female. Call me rich. Call me a teenager. But don’t ever slot me into a stereotype. Because I am me.
I am a volunteer. Charitable. I give my time. I share my spirit. My heart is huge. My heart is caring.
I am a Senior. Scared. Expected to define my life. Expected to grow up. But I’m just now learning. I’m just now loving.
I am a feminist. Passionate. People are equal. Regardless of gender. Regardless of sexual orientation.
I am a friend. Supportive. I’m loyal and forgiving. But I’m afraid I’m not enough. Never enough.
I am a daughter. I am a Christian. I am a…
Go ahead. Get to know me a little more. Ask me questions. Learn my favorite dessert. Favorite music. If I know a second language. Because I. Am. Me.
Did you know I’m in mourning? I lost a friend. A friend I didn’t know nearly as well as I thought I had. A friend I miss very much.
Did you know I lack fashion sense? My best friend will be horrified to see what I look like today. I’ll have to apologize and then wear some designer label to make up for this.
Did you know I stereotype too? Assume all kids my age can go to college. Assume everyone has a safe home life. Assume too much.
Did you know I’m afraid? Afraid of what I’m just now learning about life. Afraid my ignorance will support the stereotypes I’ve mentioned. Afraid I will drive away people who are important to me because I just don’t know what their circumstances mean.
I don’t fit into a box. I am not a person who can be marginalized, oppressed, downtrodden. Can the store clerk? Your hairdresser? The homeless man begging on the corner?
No.
Every person has a story. A series of incidents, decisions, circumstances that have shaped them into the person they are. You can make decisions about them based on their character. Their actions. The way they treat you. But don’t ever put them into a box based on their color, their gender, their financial situation. Take the time to ask them questions. Get to know them. Be human alongside them.
I am judgmental. I am humane. I am sympathetic. I am ignorant. I am an individual. I am me.
I am working on it.
Are you?
The single spotlight clicks off leaving the auditorium in pitch darkness for a second. The overhead lights, which take a bit to warm up, spark to life snapping the audience out of its trance. There’s a smattering of polite applause as I walk toward the stairs to return to my seat in the audience. Though I knew I was taking a big chance by delivering an in-your-face speech in a controversial way, I’m still disappointed by the lackluster response. I knew the beatnik feel would either be well received or completely put people off.
As I tread down the first step I hear a male voice near the back of the auditorium cry, “Yeah!” as he starts to clap loudly. A few whistles chime out and then thunderous applause erupts from everywhere. I freeze on the top step and look out over the audience. Catcalls, cheers, and more whistling than I’ve heard at our football games make goosebumps rise on my arms. A sea of smiles greets me. I return them with one of my own. Happy tears fill my eyes making the scene before me waver.
I don’t even care if the judges didn’t like my speech. What matters most
is that it resonated with my fellow students. Darnell’s voice rises above the din, “Go, Lola!”
It might be corny, but I pump my fist in the air before I trot down the stairs to find my seat, wishing I could bottle the feeling inside me in case I never feel it again. Before I sit, I snap a selfie, sure to capture some of the enthusiastic audience behind me. I send it to Cyn with the caption, “This is me, taking names.”
Chapter 31
“You’re darn right I’m horrified about that outfit,” Cyn says by way of greeting.
I look down at my jeans and blouse. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Not that one. That’s not too bad, actually. The sexy heels really make it work.” Cyn bites her lip as she considers the outfit further than seems to snap out of it. “I’m talking about all black. A turtleneck, Lola? Ugh!”
I stare at her thinking back to the selfie I sent her. I didn’t say anything about knowing she wouldn’t like it when I sent it. “How did you…?”
“Oh my gosh, Lo. I saw the video.”
“What video?”
Cyn rolls her eyes. Clearly, I’m a dunce. “Your speech, deary. Everybody’s seen it already.”
I look up and down the hallway. A couple people give me a thumbs up. One girl says, “Good job, Lola.” And then Jay walks around the corner with a piece of paper taped to his shirt that says BECAUSE I AM ME. He grins when he sees me and alters his course to head in my direction.
“I just got back like five minutes ago. How can everyone have seen it already?”
Cyn laughs. “Well, Mr. Rausch played it for us in our Humanities class. I don’t know about everyone else.”
“Lola, you’re my fricking hero.” Jay crashes into me, wraps his arms around me and kisses me on my forehead. The paper on his shirt crinkles between us. He springs away and smoothes it out.