Breaking Free

by Winter Page

  I laughed and grabbed him in his pursuit of food. Squealing with laughter, he tried to squirm away as I tickled him.

  “What’s wrong, Zach-o? Something bothering you?” I teased, flipping him upside down and dangling him from his ankles. His straight hair hung from his head, and he continued to laugh manically.

  Finally, he opened his blue eyes and smiled up at me. “Yes! You’re bothering me, silly!” he shouted excitedly, enjoying every minute of this.

  I threw him up the way I always did, and he landed on his feet, just like he did every time we played. The lucky thing about our age difference was that it was nine years, so I knew how to be independent, and he never really got in my way or annoyed me. I never did understand how siblings could be so hostile. Although, if he was two or three years behind me, that might be a different story.

  I smiled as he served himself a huge mountain of fried rice, just in time for my mom to get home from her law firm. She had set up a new practice since we moved to Little, and it had been absolute chaos for the past month as more and more people discovered that a Harvard-educated lawyer had come to town. When I saw the bags under her eyes, I didn’t try to conceal my worry.

  “How’s work, Mama?” Zach asked through a mouthful of rice.

  My mom smiled, ruffling his hair. “It’s great. I just got another major client today, so business is booming.” Her voice lit up as she chatted with him about his first day of school. She filled her plate and sat down with us at the table, almost like a traditional family supper. Almost.

  I was glad to see that she perked up a little as she ate. We all talked about new teachers and homework and the other kids, and it was all very, very normal.

  For the first time since my sixth-grade year, this annual conversation wasn’t fraught with tension and unspoken worry about my not fitting in, bullying, and whether or not I’d had any thoughts of harming myself. Thank God Zach was too little to remember any of that. I hoped he was too little to understand most of what I’d been through over the past few years. Although in fairness to my folks, they’d been through a lot with me, too.

  I had just stood up to put my plate in the sink when I heard the back door open and close. My dad was home. My entire middle clenched, and suddenly, the Chinese food felt heavy and pasty in my stomach. Zach kept eating, completely unbothered. My mom just gave me a sympathetic look we both understood.

  Hurriedly, I rinsed off my plate and was sprinting up the stairs when I heard his deep voice boom from behind me. “And where do you think you’re going? I just got home and want a hug!” he slurred, his speech unsteady.

  I rolled my eyes. My dad was a great businessman whenever he wasn’t smashed. Which wasn’t very often. I turned around slowly and headed back down, one reluctant step at a time. When I reached the second one from the bottom, I was crushed in a bear hug. He was a big man, my dad, easily six foot four and about 280 pounds.

  I squeaked, my air cut off. “Dad. Can’t breathe.”

  He laughed boisterously and let me go.

  I smiled lamely, smelling the gin on his breath. “Nice to see you, Dad. I’m going to go do my homework, now.” I tried not to clench my teeth too hard when I said it. It wasn’t that I hated my dad or that he’d done anything really bad to me. We were just as different as two human beings could be.

  He laughed and said, “Good for you, son, good for you.” He nodded and then turned and walked away, weaving his way toward the kitchen.

  I tried not to let the word “son” bother me too much. He was very drunk, so I probably should be deeply flattered that he hadn’t confused me with a stop sign. That didn’t keep me from running up the stairs two at a time, though.

  THE FIRST week of high school flew by in a blur of new names and faces all jumbled together like one massive soup bowl of hormonal psychopaths. I might be exaggerating a little. Everyone was nice, really. Well, all of the juniors, at least.

  The seniors I was in classes with seemed to fall into one of two categories. They were either sex-driven crazy people who tried to hump everything and everyone, or they were really sweet but couldn’t actually exert the effort to give one single crap about anything. The latter were the crowd I tried to get partnered up with.

  But I really liked the junior class. They were loud and vulgar and a ton of fun, overall.

  Luckily, I ended up managing to hang out at lunch for a couple of days in a row with the people I loved. My people. The drifter-artist types. Because here’s the thing. Everyone our age was completely and utterly crazy.

  It was just about picking the brand of crazy I gravitated to and the type of crazy I didn’t mind submerging myself in. I’ve always been an artist. I actually think I drew things before I spoke my first words. And artists have always had a special place in my heart because we’re the kind of people who can talk about color distribution and brush stroking technique for hours. I loved it. I absolutely loved it.

  But it was a complete surprise, the first Friday of school, when my lunch table of cool artist friends suddenly broke out talking about that night’s varsity football game.

  I smiled carefully, not wanting to weigh in too much. All my childhood I had played peewee football, and I had been a first-string safety all through middle school. I might just possibly be a tad bit bitter over the entire affair of organized sports and the challenges they imposed on kids like me.

  As I picked at my salad, Cam, a petite brunette with a talent for comic art, dragged me down the hellhole that was high school football. “Raimi, you have to go to the game tonight. It’s even a home game, so you have no excuse. So help me God, I will drive over to your heavily fortified household, break in, tie you up with duct tape, and drag your immobilized ass to the bleachers. And once we get there, I’m painting your face Raider orange.”

  I rolled my eyes, laughing softly. The campus joke had to do with the absolutely atrocious burnt-convenience-store-candle orange we Raiders wore with pride and zeal. I shook my head in the negative, not wanting to engage.

  And then of course Freddie, who was practically joined at the hip to Cam, said with a cute scowl on his chipmunk-cheeked baby face, “Don’t invoke the face paint. You know that hurts us more than it hurts her.”

  Cam hit him on the arm playfully. I laughed as they flirted with each other and horsed around at the table. They assured all of us they were like siblings, and in fact, they had known each other practically from the uterus. But everyone knew they had a thing. I still hadn’t figured out if they actually were aware of having a thing or not. But it was as obvious as a hand in front of my face.

  Cam didn’t let Freddie distract her, though. She zeroed in on me once more. “Oh, I’m invoking the face paint, girlfriend. Going to the game is that serious. Raimi has to experience the sacred ritual of high school football, therefore, I will be at your house at six tonight. Remind me again where you live?” Cam demanded.

  I toyed with my lettuce. “How about I meet you there?” I said, not looking up from my food. I could hear the collective sigh from the table, but no one protested. I let a small smile play over my lips. I was going to my first high school football game with a group of artists who all accepted me. It was everything I had wanted. Of course, the fall hadn’t come yet, and that was where life got interesting.

  HIGH SCHOOL football games were a lot like a buffet. Lots of things to look at and examine, like plays on the football field or the cute girl from the opposing school. But at the same time, everything has a common factor in it, some theme that connected all of the dishes together. What united my school was our hatred of the Tigers from across town. Freddie didn’t have to explain the dynamics of a burning rivalry. I had grown up in Texas where football was the state religion, and all of the people were humble servants to an oblong ball and stadiums that seated twenty thousand.

  It didn’t take us very long to find our seats high up in the bleachers. I glanced around, trying to figure out if the intoxication of choice was weed or booze. Scowling, I decid
ed it was a pretty even tie.

  Voicing my concern, I asked, “So is everyone always this hammered at football games?”

  Cam laughed uproariously. “Oh, sweetie. It’s a Friday night tradition that everyone gets completely trashed.” She added casually, “I’d get used to it sooner rather than later if I were you.”

  I shrugged, not wanting or needing to know more.

  The game went relatively quickly, the score 49 to 7 at the half. It was nice watching our state champion team decimate everything that stood in their steroid-enhanced way. Everyone was up and stretching at halftime when I noticed something disturbing on the sideline. Clare was walking off the field with Brad, her cheerleading skirt swaying as she walked. Brad had his arm over her, and to anyone who just glanced at them, it would seem completely normal. But as I squinted against the glare of the stadium lights, I saw the indentions his fingers made on her shoulder and the rigid way she kept trying to push him off.

  “So, Cam, what’s the deal with Clare and Brad? He seems a little… aggressive,” I said flippantly.

  Shauna, a girl I had just met tonight, piped up, “I hear he has blackmail pics of her, so she’s not leaving. Or something like that. But everyone says he has something on her the rest of the school doesn’t know about. Why do you ask?” Her voice implied she was expecting a good story from me.

  “I don’t know. He just seems a little rapey for my taste. I’m not the one dating him, though, so it’s not really my problem,” I mumbled, throwing my hands up.

  No one even looked up at me when I said that. Brad and Clare seemed to be old news and not worth spending more time on, or else everyone was done trying to get them to break up or at least to figure out if something really bad was going on.

  The rest of the night was a blur of touchdown after touchdown for the Raiders, a total blowout of our Tiger rivals. Before I left, I gave Cam and Freddie my phone number so they could let me know about a supposed party the following night. I doubted I would go, considering I hadn’t been invited, but I nonetheless pasted on a big smile of fake enthusiasm.

  What really struck me that night, though, was watching from my car as Brad backed Clare against a wall after the game. I knew I should’ve gotten out. I should’ve done something, anything. But I didn’t. I drove away, not turning around to watch her slap him. I definitely didn’t see the glint of fury in his eyes in my rearview mirror, or imagine the threatening words I spied him whispering fiercely in her ears. And I definitely didn’t see the fear take over her beautiful features, turning her paler than ice.

  I SLEPT in late on Saturday after staying up all night reading. I shuffled downstairs and put my mom’s pancakes in the microwave to heat up. I was rummaging around in our cabinets for syrup when my phone buzzed loudly, making me jump.

  Hey babe! Party tonight, will pick you up at 8.

  I sighed. Cam insisted on calling me babe, despite Freddie’s and my objections. I started typing a reply when a horrifying thought crossed my mind.

  Sounds great. Except I have nothing to wear.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. The one thing I hadn’t expected once I started transitioning was all the time and effort I had to put into dressing myself every morning in something attractive. Makeup had been no problem. Hell, it was the easiest part. Hair had been harder to master, but I’d gotten the hang of it, eventually. But what to wear… not my strong point. My phone buzzed loudly.

  Think slut and you can’t go wrong.

  I practically threw my phone on the floor in frustration. The sluttiest thing I owned was a peasant blouse that my grandmother might have called low-cut. I groaned, my pancakes forgotten for the moment. I checked the time. My mom would be in a meeting with her new client by now. I knew what I had to do. And it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  My impulse was to sweet-talk my dad like the girl I now was. But he was still only marginally on board with acknowledging me as a girl. I never knew if I should suck up to him by punching his arm or kissing his cheek and saying “pretty please.”

  “Dad?” I murmured, peeking awkwardly into his huge study. Books lined every wall, crammed with everything from ancient texts on architecture to his business records. He was sitting in his leather armchair, reading what looked to be a book on Arabic culture in the fifteenth century. He snapped the book shut, his eyes alert and intent on me.

  “What can I do for ya, champ?” he asked jovially. I smiled hesitantly. It wasn’t often that I got to see the sober man my father chose to be from time to time.

  “I was wondering if I could borrow your credit card to go shopping today? Nothing major. I just need to get something to wear to a party tonight.” I spoke carefully, trying not to say anything that would trigger his inner conservative to have an aneurism.

  “Don’t you have something to wear to a party up in that closet of yours?” he asked, frowning.

  I shook my head, laughing a little. “No, everything I own is a little too… classy… for a party like this.” I was glad to see little wrinkles form around his eyes. Those were laugh lines and not his disapproving scowl. I’d chosen my approach correctly for once.

  He chuckled deeply and rummaged around in his wallet. “All right, all right. Just nothing too out there, okay?” He could play the role of concerned parent pretty well when he wasn’t doing his rendition of stumbling drunk.

  I snorted. “Please, Dad. I’m not a whore. Yet.” I winked, taking the credit card from his outstretched hand. He rubbed his face tiredly as I turned to leave.

  “You’re going to make an old man of me, Raimi,” he yelled after me.

  I couldn’t contain my laughter as I leapt into my car, putting it into drive. I would find something for tonight, and the party was going to be great.

  FOUR HOURS later, I collapsed on my bed, shopping bags splaying out around me comically. It wasn’t that I had bought all that much. It just came from different stores that insisted I couldn’t consolidate into one bag. I sighed, finishing the last of my coffee before throwing the empty cup into the trashcan. I glanced over at the clock and cursed loudly. Two hours to get ready and I hadn’t even showered yet. I was screwed.

  I can’t stress how quickly those minutes flew by, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, I stood in front of my mirror, fixing the last details. I couldn’t help beaming at my reflection. My hair was straight around my face and hung long down my back. I hadn’t held back on my makeup, going for a full-on smoky eye that made my cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass.

  I had a crop top on that rode up to show a little peek of skin when I moved around and severely short shorts revealed more than enough long, tan leg, even with black stiletto boots covering my calves. I was touching up the last of my lipstick when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my phone, running down the stairs precariously in the practically stripper worthy heels. Cam was waiting for me impatiently at the door in a bright pink mini skirt and a peasant blouse and bright green heels.

  She appraised me quickly, her hair falling silkily in her face. “You look hot. Now let’s go,” she said, looping her arm through mine and walking me to her convertible with Freddie behind the wheel.

  The thing about Cam is that I never knew what she was thinking. Her face and voice had an eerie way of never correlating emotions. Except, of course, when she saw Freddie waiting in the car and grinned broadly at him.

  “Get us out of here. It smells like rich kid,” Cam yelled.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Oh, whatever, Miss Trust Fund,” I quipped. They both laughed, and we went to the party like that. Carefree and completely young. I don’t think I had ever felt so much like a teenager as in that one moment.

  We pulled up in front of an imposing brick colonial unfortunate enough for its adult owners to be away for the weekend. The party was already spilling out onto the front lawn. If the kids putting on this blowout were smart, they’d take it into the backyard before one of the neighbors called the cops.

  Freddie handed me t
he car keys. Even though he’d driven, I gathered that the car was Cam’s. She, however, declared me the designated driver. Which was fine with me. They both handed me little slips of paper that described how to get them home from whoever’s house we were at. Wow. They’d obviously done this before.

  And then the drinking started.

  Three

  IT STARTED out with just beer for the majority of kids thronging the house. They must have been waiting until later in the night to get really smashed. But as the party got more and more crowded, some of the more beautiful girls took shots of vodka, chasing it down with Red Bull—to get the taste out, I guess.

  Different people had different drinks of choice, I learned soon enough. For Cam, it was rum and Coke, but Freddie went straight for the beer. I was fascinated for a while, just watching everyone interact.

  Since I didn’t know most of these people, I was able to study them objectively. Most of them struck me as desperate to fit in and desperate to stand out in the crowd. They were actually kind of pathetic as a group. But then, I wanted the exact same things in my heart of hearts. Who was I to pass judgment?

  Eventually, I got bored of playing scientist and wandered over to the makeshift bar. It consisted of a long dining room table pulled over in front of a liquor cabinet. The kid manning the bar was mixing everything from gin to Jack Daniels with literally every brand of soda I had ever seen.

  Music was thrumming loudly in my ears as I leaned against a wall, taking in everyone that stumbled up to and away from the table. Most of the hard drinkers were girls, interestingly enough. I would’ve thought it would be the boys getting the girls drunk, but either it was the other way around or the girls were trashing themselves tonight.

  It was strange to watch couple after couple sneak away upstairs, in varying degrees of sobriety. Everything was pretty normal, pretty much what I associated with underage drinking and high school parties. For about two hours.