by Cat Bauer
I sit on the sofa in the living room. I stare at the floor. Peppy's blue Kmart specials shuffle back and forth. Roger's cowboy boots trample the carpet. I am fascinated by the movement of their feet.
“What are we going to do with you?” Peppy is shrieking. She has turned into a banshee, and her voice is hurting my ears. I stop listening. “I just don't know what to do!”
I say nothing. I stare at the floor. Roger's boots need a polish, I think. And maybe some spurs. Roger removes his belt. “Answer your mother, Harley. Answer your mother if you know what's good for you.”
I cannot hear my mother, I want to explain, I can only hear static. I have turned into a plastic Baby Girl Harley doll whose battery is dead. I cannot answer. I cannot move my mouth. All I can do is sit in my little black party dress and watch their shoes dance.
“Look at me, Harley Marie. LOOK AT ME!” Roger is roaring. I look up and see Bean and Lily crouched on the stairs, cowering against the railing. They are both sobbing. I want to wrap my arms around them and tell them it's all right, but I cannot move.
“What's wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Are you on drugs right now?” Peppy's voice pierces through the static in my brain. I shake my head no.
“Answer your mother, goddamn it!” Roger clenches the big silver Texas buckle in his hand. I open my mouth but no sounds come out. “ANSWER HER!” Roger raises the belt above his head. He has mistaken me for a piece of furniture, I think. He swings the belt down. I feel the side of my head go numb and realize he has whipped me across my face. I think it hurts, but my body is too far away.
I start to raise my hand to my cheek, then stop. I will not give them the satisfaction. My vision turns to ice. I lower my arm. I stand up. Icicle eyes. I glare at Peppy and Roger with my eyes of ice. Their mouths move, but I cannot hear what they say. I walk to the stairs. Step by step, I climb up to my room. As I pass Bean and Lily, I pat them each on the head. Bean takes my hand and squeezes it; I squeeze his back. I walk into my room and lie down on my bed. I close my eyes and drift up to the crystal-blue pond in Straw-berry Fields.
All morning on Sunday I lie in bed with my door closed. I get up to use the bathroom, then lie back down. My body is too heavy.
No one enters my room. I am in a dark cocoon. I am a caterpillar that will never turn into a butterfly. I drift in and out of sleep. I dream I am in a strange room in a strange bed. I am dying. Peppy is with me. Doom. I feel doom. It's only a dream, I tell myself, and then: How can you know it's only a dream if you're dreaming? I am dying, I tell Peppy. Please don't leave me here alone. She asks me, Are you frightened? No, I say. Just don't let me die alone. I am here, she tells me. You are not alone. In my dream, I fall asleep. When I wake up in the strange room, Peppy has left and I am alone.
Time passes. I open my eyes, and I am alone in my own room. It is dark. I hear the phone ring a thousand miles away and Peppy's voice say, “I'm sorry, Evan.” I weigh too much to do something about it.
I see the bedroom door open. I hear tiny foot-steps patter into the room. I blink and Lily is standing over me.
“Harley,” she whispers. “Harley, I snuck you a cookie.” She places the cookie on the pillow next to my mouth.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. I sit up. “Lily, come here.”
Lily looks scared. She backs up. “It's okay, Lily,” I say. “I just want to give you a hug.”
She comes to the edge of the bed. I wrap my arms around her tiny body. I hold her forever and she lets me. I cry and cry and she pats my head with her little hand. Her hand is the wing of a butterfly. “It's okay, Harley,” she says. “It's okay.”
On Monday morning, Peppy is an army tank plowing through my bedroom. “Get up. I'm driving you to school.”
I don't look at her. “I'm not going to school.”
Peppy rips the covers off me. “Oh, yes, you are. I'm driving you there and picking you up. I've already made arrangements with my boss. If you're going to act like a child, I'm going to treat you like one. Now get dressed.”
I pull the covers back over my body. “No.” I am not getting out of bed for the rest of my life.
Peppy grabs my arm and yanks me onto the floor.
“Now you listen to me, young lady. When I tell you to do something, you do it. Get dressed before I call your father up here.” She turns and walks out of the room. “And leave that door open.”
I stand up. I pull on a pair of dirty jeans and a T-shirt from a heap on the floor. I don't brush my hair. I don't care what I look like. I am a slob. So what.
I look at myself in the mirror. The person reflected back is no one I know. There is a red welt on the side of my face from the slap of the belt. I do not know how I will make it through the day. I hate my life.
My eyes drift to the edge of my easel. There is the postcard of the Imagine mosaic in Strawberry Fields. Imagine … Imagine no Lenape. I slip the postcard off the board. I grab my backpack. I open my night table drawer. I flip through my artwork and find the bus schedule. I toss it into the backpack. I reach under my bed for my harlequin. I stuff him in my backpack, too, and zip it up.
I take off the jeans and pull on some tights. I tug a dress over my head. I step in front of the mirror again. I run a comb through my long brown hair. I cover the red welt with makeup. I put on some lipstick and mascara. I smile. Now I recognize myself. I am Harley. Like a person.
I stand on the steps of the Pond Hole, smoking, hoping for a glimpse of Evan in his blue Camaro.
Debbie Nagle slithers over to me, a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You got Lisa busted, Harley.” She blows a puff of smoke into my face.
I am astounded. “Me? What did I do?”
Debbie spits on the ground. “ 'Cause of the spiked punch.”
I can't believe she is nailing me, too. “I didn't spike the punch. You guys had it before I ever got there.”
“Yeah, but if you didn't bring that loser, Oliver, nobody woulda found out. Think about it.”
Debbie turns away and stands with the rest of the group, far from me. I hold my head high and act like I don't care, even though it takes all my willpower to keep my feet planted. My head is throbbing. I am an outcast among the outcasts.
I hear the roar of Evan's Camaro and see his car whip through the parking lot. Thank you, God. I start down the stairs. I stop. Flying outside the passenger window is a banner of red hair. Tori, his old girlfriend. My knight in shining armor has got Tinkerbell riding shotgun. I think I hear Evan yell, “Harley, wait!” but I do not obey. I dash back up the stairs and hide in the bushes outside the gym and cry.
I am standing in homeroom, not saying the Pledge of Allegiance. We sit down. Miss Auberjois hands me a note and says, “Mees Meenelli weeshes to see you right away.”
I stand up and listen to the whispers bounce off my back. I have scabs on my feelings; nothing can penetrate. I walk down the hall. I go into Ms. Minelli's office. She stands behind her desk with her arms crossed. Her face is an iron mask. I wait. Finally she speaks.
“Harley, I'm taking you off the drama club project.”
Boom. Her words are cannonballs. I am blown off my feet. I sit without her telling me to. I look down at my hands and bite my lip. I chew it hard to keep from crying. I summon up the last drop of my strength.
“Why?” My voice is feeble. “What did I do? I didn't do anything! That's not fair!”
Ms. Minelli slaps her hands on the desk and leans over me. I have never seen her angry before. “You ruined the Spring Ball for everyone, that's what you did. If it weren't for your parents, you'd be suspended.”
“How did I ruin it?”
“You brought a strange boy from another town. You drank spiked punch. You caused a fight. You're dating Evan Lennon, who was suspended for selling drugs.”
“I didn't drink that punch! I didn't know Oliver would get into a fight! I'm not selling drugs!” This is totally unfair; I cannot believe it.
Miss Posey and Bud Roman appear in the doorway. I am s
o happy to see them, I almost jump into their arms. “Miss Posey, do something!”
“Bernice, can we talk to you?” I never thought of Ms. Minelli as having a first name. Miss Posey's eyes are big and round beneath her bangs. She does not look like she is a match for the fury of Ms. Minelli. “We really need Harley to finish the project.”
Bud Roman winks at Ms. Minelli as if he does not take the whole thing seriously. Maybe there is hope. If anyone can save me, he can. “Come on, Bernice. Give the kid a break.”
Ms. Minelli is not amused. “Harley, wait in the hall and close the door.”
I am five years old. I am a bad girl. I stand up and walk outside. I throw Miss Posey and Bud Roman a desperate look on the way out. “Please,” I whisper.
I stand in the hallway and listen through the door. I catch bits and pieces. “She's the best….” “I'm sure there are other talented …” “… not enough time … All kids go through it…. Her benefactor …” “I'm sorry….” Finally the door opens. “Come in, Harley,” calls Ms. Minelli.
I step inside. Miss Posey stares at the floor. Bud Roman stares at the wall. Ms. Minelli stares at me. She does not hesitate. “Harley, I'm afraid you'll have to turn over the art department key.” Boom. I take an-other bullet, this time in the heart.
I reach into the pocket of my dress and pull out the heavy brass key on the red shoelace. Crack. Something snaps inside my head. I think it is my sanity. I throw the key on the floor.
“Pick up that key and hand it to me,” orders Ms. Minelli. I do not move. “Pick it up, I said.”
I bend down and pick up the key. I do not give it to Ms. Minelli; I give it to Miss Posey. She looks like she is about to cry, but I feel nothing at all. Miss Posey takes the key and gently squeezes my fingers. I do not squeeze back.
“Return to homeroom now, Harley,” commands General Minelli. I want to salute, but I do not. I turn and walk out the door. Behind me I hear Bud Roman say, “This is asinine, Bernice. No wonder the poor kid is a mess.”
I march down the lonely corridor. I am cold. I am deadly. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. My shoes are combat boots on the tile floor. I head to my locker. I open it. I take out my backpack. I pull it over my shoulders. This is war. This is life. I close the locker. Clank. I march. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I am a soldier and this is war. I head toward the side door of Lenape High. Clank. I push down on the steel bar. I walk out the door. Thud. It slams behind me. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I do not look back.
I am at the bus stop. The bus with the New York City sign idles in the parking lot, doors closed, ready to roll. Escape. That's all I can think: I want to escape. My heart is pumping so hard, I can feel the blood pounding in my temples. I stand on my tiptoes and knock on the bus door. It swings open. A pudgy man in a gray uniform looks bored. “Is this the bus to New York City?” I call up to him.
The driver yawns. “That's what the sign says, kid.”
“How long before you leave?”
The bus driver rolls his eyes as if he cannot answer this question once more in his life. He checks his watch. “Five minutes.”
I think I should call Mrs. Tuttle and tell her I won't be there after school. Sometimes I am so conscientious, it's ridiculous. Or maybe … maybe a part of me wants her to talk me out of this little adventure. “Don't go without me,” I instruct the driver, who yawns again and looks like the only place he wants to go is to bed.
I run over to the pay phone outside the luncheonette. I put a coin in the slot and dial. “Hello?” Mrs. Tuttle is all cheery, and I want to dash right over there and curl up in her rocking-chair voice.
“Hello, Gran—” Whoa. I almost called her Granny.
What is that about? “Mrs. Tuttle, it's Harley.” I talk fast so I won't chicken out. “I'm … I'm not feeling well, so I won't be over after school. Sorry.”
The bus driver revs his engine. I pretend to cough and cover the receiver so she won't hear the noise.
“Oh, okay, honey.” Mrs. Tuttle sounds disappointed. “Too bad. I wanted your opinion on my sun-flowers. I've gone Van Gogh.”
Yeah, well, no more artwork for this kid. She is still talking: “… the canvas for your play.”
“I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”
“The canvas for your play. The last time I saw you, you hadn't finished it yet. How's it working out?”
Well, that is the worst possible question anyone could ask me right now. “It's … fine.”
“I hope it's the right size.”
I know she means well, but now is not the time. “Mrs. Tuttle—”
“They didn't tell you?”
I am confused. “Tell me what?” Either I'm completely out of it or Mrs. Tuttle is talking in code.
“I've always wanted to be an anonymous donor, but it's not in my nature. I've just got to blab!”
The bus driver taps his horn. I hold up a finger: One minute. Mrs. Tuttle is rambling on about generosity of spirit and giving back to the community. I am getting a little impatient with her. I try to interrupt. “Listen, Mrs. Tuttle, I've really got—” Then, suddenly, I understand what she is trying to tell me. “You donated the canvas!”
Mrs. Tuttle laughs, pleased with her little surprise. “I did, I did.”
I want to drop the telephone and leave it swinging, like in a spy movie, and jump on the bus. I have done everything wrong with her. Everything. First the New York City book, now this. It's completely over, my life, this town. I've got to get off the phone before I start bawling. “The canvas is perfect, Mrs. Tuttle, but you shouldn't have, you really shouldn't …” My voice is trembling. She is talking at the same time, about encouraging creativity and planting seeds in the youth of the country and how she can't wait to see me bloom. “I really don't feel good, Mrs. Tuttle. I've got to go.” I am straight-out crying now. She is still talking when I hang up the phone.
There it is, another dream gone. Snatched away. Me and Mrs. Tuttle, side by side, with our smocks and palettes, dabbing on the oils with Beethoven in the air. I inhale my tears. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. I walk back to the bus. My knees are wobbly as I climb up the steep steps. I have never been on a regular bus before, only those clunky yellow school ones. I stand on the platform next to the bus driver. “I'm back!” I force myself to sound normal.
The driver doesn't even look at me. “One way or round-trip?”
“One way.” I don't ever want to come back.
“Five dollars eighty cents.”
I fumble in my backpack. I give the man a tendollar bill. He punches a machine. It whirs and spits out a receipt. He hands it to me along with my change. He looks at me like he sees me for the first time. “Hey, kid. How come you're not in school?”
My heart is pounding so hard, I think he can see it thump through my jacket. “I … I'm going to visit my dad.” I'm getting really good at thinking up lies on the spot. “He's sick.”
The driver seems to buy it. I make my way to the third seat and scoot over to the window. I want to see where I'm going, but I don't want the driver staring at me. There are only five other people on the bus. I don't recognize any of them. Lenape Lakes is in the middle of the line, so I guess they came from towns farther north.
The driver checks his watch again. He closes the door. He grinds into gear. The bus grunts, hesitates, then moves forward.
The driver swings out onto Wanaque Avenue. We pass the bank, the Deli, and Tony's Pizza, everything that is familiar and safe. What I am doing suddenly hits me: I am leaving Lenape. At the corner, the bus makes a left and heads toward the edge of town. The driver shifts into high gear. The trees whizzing by on either side of the road are just starting to bloom. The bus groans and snorts and speeds faster. I press my face against the window and watch Lenape fade away.
The schedule says it takes an hour and two minutes to get to Port Authority, the bus station. We have made several stops along the way and now the bus is almost full. I wanted both seats to myself, so I tried to beam everybody away with my force field,
but an old man in a funny hat and big thick glasses is sitting next to me. He stares straight ahead and is silent. He smells like stale cigars. I watch the scenery change from trees to industrial complexes as we race up the highway, passing places I have never seen before.
After about forty-five minutes, I see a dark silhouette far off in the distance, hovering above the horizon like a city in the clouds. I recognize it from a thousand different photographs. Oh, wow. It is the New York City skyline, glimmering right in front of my eyes. It looks like the Emerald City, and I feel like Dorothy going to Oz.
“Look!” I say to the old man. I cannot contain myself. “Look!”
The old man peers through his thick glasses. His eyes are giant eight balls. “What?” He bends his neck. “What? The skyline? Is that what you're all worked up about?”
“I've never seen it before! Which one is the Empire State Building?”
The old man smiles, and I can see his teeth are yellow. Tough white whiskers sprout like little needles from his chin. “The one in the middle there. The biggest one.”
“Wow.” I sit back in my seat and watch as the skyline grows larger. “Wow.”
“Where you headed, young lady?” The old man's voice is sandpaper. He coughs.
“I'm going to visit my dad,” I say. “He lives on West Eleventh Street.”
“Down in the Village, eh? Is he meeting you?”
I hesitate. I don't want to get too elaborate with this lie. “Actually, no. I'm surprising him.”
The old man coughs again, all phlegmy and gross. “Alone? Be careful. How you getting there? Taxi?”
“Are they expensive?”
“Rip-off. Used to be cabbies knew where they were going. Now you even gotta tell them how to get to the Garden. They don't speak English anymore. Me, I take the subway.”
I am silent. The subway sounds too frightening for this girl. I never really thought about what I'd do once I got to New York City. “Is West Eleventh Street far from Port Authority?”