Last night, when I arrived home, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I had the sort of day that I’d only read about. Porter Henning signed my yearbook with the most beautiful message. He wanted to take me to Cafe Grumpy and fill my stomach with cookies and muffins. With that thought, my mouth watered, kicking my stomach into hunger overdrive. I didn’t know how we would meet up. I don’t even think he knew where I lived. I could look in the school directory and call him, but what if Mr. or Mrs. Henderson found out I used the phone? I didn’t want to think of the consequences, though if I wanted a whole day with Porter Henning, I’d have to go for it—put my fear aside, and just do it.
The floor above me shook, and I could hear Mrs. Henderson shouting over the TV.
“Jenny!” she called. “Turn down that racket!”
Jenny was a year younger than me. The Hendersons had taken her in six months ago, and the moment she arrived, I knew she hated me. When she walked into the front door, the first things she noticed were her bleak surroundings, particularly the box TV sitting on the floor and the yellowed wallpaper tearing at the corners of the wall. She turned her nose up in the air, like she was the queen and didn’t belong in such a low-class place. When her eyes met mine, I smiled, excited to see that there would be another kid in the house that was my age. I was overjoyed at the thought of playing games that weren’t meant for toddlers, and being able to finally relate to someone. That illusion was shattered the minute she glared at me.
It was because of Jenny that I moved to the basement. It was because of her that I couldn’t eat my meals at the dining table. It was because of her that something inside Mrs. Henderson changed and instead of ignoring me, I became her boxing bag.
Jenny was the cause of my life going from bad to worse, yet almost every day, I tried to get her to like me. A few days ago, I worked up the courage to ask why she hated me.
“Why do I hate you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve never done anything to you. I’ve always been nice to you.”
“You’re weird looking,” Jenny finally replied.
“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head back and forth.
“Your hair is nappy. You dress like a little baby,” she counted. “And your skin color looks like poop.”
I was speechless. I stood in front of her, hoping that I didn’t cry, trying so hard to hold my tears back. I looked at her. Through her. Searching for the thing that caused her to hate what was different.
Jenny was right, after all. My hair was a mess. My skin was brown. I was different through and through, but I never hated myself until she pointed out those flaws.
Jenny didn’t move, she just stared at me, anticipating my reaction. “You’re never going to get adopted,” she taunted. “Parents don’t want your kind in their families.”
With that sentence, I ran out of the living room and down to the basement, where I curled into a ball and cried. I cried for hours, but no one cared to check on me. I’m positive Jenny didn’t tell the Hendersons what she had said. Even if she did, I’m sure they’d just laugh and agree with her. I was a monster in this skin, and there was only one way to relieve the pain that was pent up inside of me.
I searched the basement for anything I could harm myself with—a broken piece of glass, a box cutter, something sharp enough to cut through skin—anything. Instead of someone else in my life hurting me, this time I wanted to be the one causing the pain.
My jeans were torn in the knees, and as I crawled around on the dirty cement, I could feel my skin becoming irritated. My hand moved into every dark corner of the room. I tore open the tape on a large moving box, throwing out old picture frames, stuffed animals, and vases. At the very bottom of the box were a pair of scissors. For the first time in three hours, I smiled. I picked up the scissors and walked to the basement door, making sure no one was nearby. There wasn’t a lock on the door, so I had to be careful and not make any noise. When I sat down on my mattress, I observed the sharpness of the tool. I ran my finger against the blade, testing if it was sharp enough. I bit down on my tongue and pressed the tip into my finger, feeling a satisfying sting erupt in my stomach. A small trickle of blood landed on my ankle, and I watched my skin turn from brown to red.
I wiped away the blood, hoping it didn’t get onto my clothing. I needed to figure out a way to do it without making a mess. The Hendersons would be so angry with me if I ruined their sheets. I moved off of the bed and sat on the floor. I lifted my shorts up, breathing heavily while staring at my thigh. I closed my eyes, feeling the tears sweep down my cheeks. My thoughts were shouting at me, pushing me to do it. Everyone hates you in this world! You’re too different to be liked!
I gulped loudly and steadied the scissors above my skin. I lowered them, moving it the tiniest bit. It took just one small, painless incision to make me feel like a human. Seeing the blood drip onto the ground, I was reminded that I was just like everyone else. Even if my skin wasn’t white, my blood was the same color as everyone else’s.
Recounting that dark night was something I barely ever did. I was still so angry for allowing someone to push me to that point. I’d barely spoken to Jenny since it happened. We lived under the same roof, but I avoided her as much as I could. When she was in the kitchen, I was in the upstairs bathroom. When she was in the bathroom, I’d stay downstairs.
I sat up from the mattress and twisted my hair into a bun. Since it was now summer, I’d have to find something to do during the day. I could possibly help out some of the neighbors, or maybe the Hendersons would allow me to babysit the younger kids while they worked.
I opened the basement door slightly, trying to peek out before walking through. The coast was clear...or so I thought.
“Kingsley, you’re finally awake,” Mrs. Henderson called from the kitchen. She was sitting at the table cutting out coupons from the local store ads.
“H-hi. I mean, good morning, Mrs. Henderson.” I slowly walked into the kitchen, preparing every single word that would leave my mouth. I didn’t want to accidentally spill details about Porter, or how good of a day I had yesterday.
“Sit down.” She pointed to the empty chair across from her. “We were supposed to talk about this yesterday, but somehow the time got away from us.”
I sat down, crossing my ankles and keeping my hands in my lap. I nervously wrung them together, not sure how to stop myself. I never did figure out what I did wrong, and I’d forgotten all about it. Were they giving me back to the children’s home? Had I become too much of a nuisance?
“Jenny told me what you said to her the other day.” Mrs. Henderson looked at me pointedly, both eyebrows raised so high they nearly touched her hairline.
“I didn’t say anything to her,” I quickly responded. Keeping my focus on anything but Mrs. Henderson’s evil stare, I examined my hands in my lap.
“Kingsley, look at me,” she demanded. “What on Earth did you say to Jenny that made her so upset?”
“Nothing!” I exclaimed. “She hates me! Whatever she told you, she’s lying.” Tears pricked my eyes, and I could feel the sweat forming on my forehead.
Mrs. Henderson’s nostrils flared. I’d never shouted at her. I’d never shown this much emotion while being in this house. She took a few deep breaths and then spoke. “You’re a very bad person for lying. We saved you. We feed you. All we ask is that you don’t lie to us!” She stood so quickly from her chair, it fell to the ground. She stomped over toward me, lifting me up by my arm and forcing me to look at her. “Tell me the truth!”
“Please! Just let me go,” I begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
Mrs. Henderson pushed me away and I tripped onto the floor. Before marching out of the kitchen, she bent down and whispered, “Get your filthy body off of my floor. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day.”
I moved down the stairs in a haze, gripping my right arm. A faint outline of her hand was left on my skin, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke in th
e morning to a black and blue mark. I should be used to seeing those colors shadow my skin, but most times, the Hendersons were smart, never leaving bruises that could be easily discovered. Now that it was summer, my whole body was fair game.
I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d cried in this basement. I used to keep a page in my notebook, checking off each day I cried just to see how many days of the year were filled with sadness, but after seeing fifty checkmarks, that made my mood even worse. I wanted this time to be the last time I cried on this mattress. The last time I cried in this house. It was wishful thinking that I’d ever leave this place before I was an official adult, but every day I hoped for it a little more.
I put on my headphones, so thankful to Mrs. Wilkinson for giving me her old Walkman. It only played tapes, which was fine because a lot of the songs I loved were classics. I pushed play and almost immediately felt calmer. I only owned three tapes, and one received much more play than the others. When I listened to “Smile” by Nat King Cole, it always made me feel like I was being held by big, strong arms protecting me from everything and giving me strength with every lyric.
As I hummed my favorite song, I grabbed the yearbook from under my pillow and turned to the page Porter had written on. My fingers skimmed over the ink, tracing each letter.
I think you’re really pretty and your smile, like the one on your face right now, could stop traffic.
It was something Prince Charming would say. It was a sentence that I could read over and over and never become sick of. Porter thought I was pretty. He didn’t think my skin color was ugly. He didn’t make fun of my hair. He liked my smile. The smile I’d only shown him. I cradled the book against my chest, holding it tightly, hoping somehow the words could seep in through my skin and allow me to see what Porter saw.
“Kingsley? Kingsley, wake up.”
Trish lightly nudged my side, waking me from a deep sleep. I felt Wren’s body next to mine, peacefully snoring without a care in the world.
“Hi,” I said, sitting up on my elbows. My back was aching from the hard floor, and my hand was still sore. “Did you just now get home?”
“Yes, and you can imagine my surprise to see you two sleeping on my kitchen floor,” Trish scolded. She gave me a warning look before walking into her bedroom.
Trish met Wren just once, and even that was on accident. It was four months ago, and he was dropping me off at school just as Trish was walking up to my dorm. At that point, I really did only want Wren for his body. If I introduced him as such, “Hey Trish, meet Wren, my fuck buddy,” she would have had a heart attack. She was pretty old school when it came to a lot of things. No boys allowed in my room with the door closed. No dessert before dinner. Never wear a skirt above your knees. I’d broken every single one of her rules, yet she still accepted my behavior. She never punished me, but instead would try to resolve the issue through communication. The first few times she did this, I rolled my eyes and told her that I’d rather ride a pig through mud than have a conversation about my mistakes.
The meeting between Wren and Trish was brief. I told Trish that Wren was a friend and we’d just finished studying...each other’s bodies. She politely shook his hand, and in return Wren smiled. They exchanged pleasantries and what seemed like a lifetime later, Wren was gone. I’m sure Trish didn’t try asking me questions about him because she knew I wouldn’t answer them.
I shook Wren awake...and shook and shook. Wren was an extremely deep sleeper, and sometimes I was tempted to pull hairs from his chest to wake him up.
“Ugh, stop!” he pouted. He rolled away from me, repositioning his arm under his head.
“Wren, wake up!” I shook him vigorously until he turned back around. He looked at me like I’d just pushed his mother down the stairs.
“What is your problem?” he whined.
“Trish is here!” I announced, panic filling my voice.
Wren shot up from the floor so quick you’d have thought that the house was burning down. He rushed into the living room and put on his jacket just as Trish was walking out of her bedroom. I moved onto the couch and made myself comfortable.
“Nice to see you again, Wren,” Trish said politely.
“Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Elms.”
“Oh, please call me Trish,” she said as she sat in one of the accent chairs. She pointed to the matching one. “Wren, please have a seat.”
Wren sat nervously and placed both hands in his lap. He looked over at me, wordlessly asking me if we were doomed. I was a blank slate. I’d never actually been caught with a guy in the house because I knew how upset it would make Trish.
“I hope that you two are being safe,” Trish said quietly, focusing on her lap as she spoke.
“Oh my gosh, Trish, we don’t need to talk about this. Wren stopped by last night. We were both tired and fell asleep. That’s all.”
“Why are you cradling your hand to your chest?” Trish asked, waiting for me to speak up.
“Wren and I were just play fighting,” I admitted.
“I see. Back in my day, we play fought with pillows, not fists,” she commented as she stared at my hand.
Wren and I smiled at each other, then at Trish. I was glad she moved away from the topic of sex. Trish and I were very different in a lot of ways. She had her beliefs and she stuck by those, something I was a tiny bit envious of. The only thing I ever believed in was sex. It’s all I really ever knew.
“Back in your day? Trish, you’re only 65!” I stood and walked past her, squeezing her shoulder.
“I’m 45, Kingsley!” she corrected.
I grabbed two ice packs that were buried in the back of the freezer. Tossing one to Wren, I sat back on the couch and pressed the cold pack onto my throbbing hand. What I really needed was a Vicodin.
“Okay, I won’t discuss the topic of being safe, but I will discuss this. I don’t believe in sleepovers.” Trish turned and spoke to Wren. “I know that Kingsley has been sleeping over there quite a bit because the only time she answers my calls now are during the day.” Trish turned back toward me. “You’re old enough now to know how to be safe, but I won’t allow you two to sleep together under my roof. I trust you, and I can see Wren makes you happy, so I will try my hardest not to be upset with how you’re going about your relationship.”
I closed my eyes and tried pinching myself a few times to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare. Wren was not sitting here as Trish discussed these things with me. This was not real life.
“We understand, Trish,” Wren interjected.
Trish called what Wren and I had a relationship. Is that what it was?
I wanna try. My words came flooding back to me, hitting me like a bullet in the chest. Until now, I hadn’t thought about the consequences of my words, and there were consequences. We went from being casual to serious overnight. In no time, we’d start having boring missionary sex and go to bed by ten.
“We got it,” I echoed.
Trish nodded and stood up. When she left the room, Wren moved onto the couch next to me.
“What’s going on?” He took my hands, kissing each palm before placing them in his lap.
“What are you talking about?”
“Kingsley.”
The way Wren said my name, I half expected him to slap me on the wrist. I kept quiet, holding it all in. I was so sure that I wanted to get serious last night. Fifteen hours after my confession, my certainty was waning.
“When Trish said the word relationship, you practically crumbled in your seat.” Wren let go of my hands and rested his arms against the back of the sofa, focusing on the fan circulating above us.
“I guess I’m just not used to hearing my name and that word in the same sentence.” I cradled his face, pleading with him to look at me. “Look, Wren, I know what I told you last night, and I meant every word, but we need to go slow with things.”
“Slow with things? Are you kidding?”
His voice grew loud, and I shushed him, knowing Trish
wasn’t far away. I didn’t want her to know that we were arguing. I didn’t know why it was so important to me that she saw my relationship as something that was good.
“We’ve been at this for nine months now. Do you want to go back in time and not fuck me every night? Because we can’t do that.” Wren stood up, pushing my hand away as I tried to grab his.
“Please,” I pleaded, “just listen to me. All I’m saying is that I need to learn how to go about all of this. You and me. The serious stuff. I don’t know how to do it, but I’m willing to try.”
Trish walked past the living room and into the kitchen. She ignored the tension in the room and began boiling water in her teapot. I looked into the kitchen and then at Wren, silently begging him not to leave.
“Would you two like a cup of tea?” Trish asked.
“No, thank you, Trish,” Wren answered. “I was actually on my way out.” He looked over at me before putting on his jacket.
Don’t go is what I wanted to yell. Stay is what I didn’t plead. “I’ll call you later” was what I said.
Wren left without another word. I wanted to chase after him, again, but I didn’t. I stayed seated, practically glued to the couch cushion.
“Did Wren just leave?” Trish asked, walking into the room, mug in hand. “I would have thought you two would be spending the day together. It is summer after all.”
The smell of the tea brought an instant comfort. The distinct aroma of bergamot orange filled the air, and my muscles immediately relaxed. Ever since Trish realized that the smell of Earl Grey tea calmed me, she often made it when she sensed I was stressed. I lowered my gaze to the floor, ashamed that Trish had to witness our fight.
“Yeah, he had things to do,” I lied.
In Control (The City Series) Page 5