Learning more would have to wait. I was staying the night at Ryan’s house as we were going to go to a Restra concert. While I didn’t care for Restra, I always enjoyed going to concerts because we would have a good time, and I liked to see all the interesting people that come out—there were always some strange ones.
As I got in the pod to head to Ryan’s after work, I was tempted to reroute it home, so I could spend time reading Beth’s journal instead. I knew that if I went home and started to read, I wouldn’t leave. As much as I enjoy paper books, they can be inconvenient as you can’t always have them with you. If I carried Beth’s journal around with me, I’d risk it getting discovered or even lost. Ryan was always getting into my purse to borrow some makeup and she would subject me to endless teasing if she found the journal—and that’s just if she gave it back. If I didn’t go to the concert, though, I’d not only have to face Ryan’s wrath but I’d also have a hard time explaining to Mom why I would rather stay home—I still didn’t want to share with her about the journal or my job at Millennial Antiques. If I shared about one, I had to share about the other. So off to Ryan’s I went.
When I walked into Ryan’s, I was surprised to see Clara there. She occasionally hung out with us, but had never been to a concert with Ryan and me. Ryan hadn’t mentioned inviting her, either. Clara looked like she could pass for Tinker Bell, she was so green. She was wearing a short green wig—her hair is actually blonde—shaped in a pixie cut. She also wore a short green dress and completed her ensemble with green, glittery flats. I was surprised she only carried a small handbag, not a sparkling wand. Next to Ryan, her short stature in flats certainly made her look even more like she was of a different, not-quite-earthly species.
Ryan accentuated her height by wearing red high heels, long black pants, and a red shirt-dress that hugged her curves. When she put on her red eye shadow and lashes and took down her long, curly, brown hair, she looked like she could be on one of the choose-your-own adventure programs. She’d have to dye her hair blonde, though.
“Amala, so glad you finally made it!” Ryan exclaimed, as if I hadn’t walked in at our prearranged meeting time. “Clara and I have been hanging out since school, so I invited her to come with.” It stung a little that they hung out without inviting me. It didn’t matter that I was already busy, I was Ryan’s best friend.
“Let’s get you dressed!” Clara said as she led me into Ryan’s bedroom.
Though I prefer to dress in black and was already wearing what I thought was the perfect outfit, Ryan convinced me not to wear the conservative tank top and black jeans and instead wear her blue dress, the one that she got in trouble for wearing to school last month. Sebastian always complimented me in black, and somehow that became my favorite color to wear, too. Clara had a headband that went well with the borrowed dress, and she did my eyes and lips to match. At least they let me wear my favorite black heels as neither Clara’s petite shoes nor Ryan’s large ones would fit me.
Before we left Ryan’s apartment, I looked in the mirror. The blue dress truly was stunning and made me look beyond my high school years. I hardly recognized the girl who stood before me, the one who just got dumped by her not-quite boyfriend.
As we got to our seats high up in the stadium—the best we could afford with our eCred allowances—I felt the excitement building in my stomach. As we were waiting for the concert to start, we got up on our seats and started dancing. I’m sure if anyone was watching us, they thought we were already drunk, though we hadn’t had a sip of alcohol or any other substance. Dance music, slinky outfits, and a Friday night were the only stimulants we needed to have a good time.
By the time Restra got on stage, I had to sit down as I was laughing too hard. We were definitely attracting the attention of those around us, but we didn’t care.
When two boys one aisle over who looked a couple of years older than us approached the three of us, I thought they wanted to join in on our fun. Ryan had had her eye on them from the beginning, and all three of us had been whispering—okay, yelling over the band—and giggling about them.
“Hi, I’m Xavier,” the taller boy said as he pushed through the crowd to get to us.
“Jamari,” the other said, holding out his broad hand to me, looking me straight in the eye with his stunning dark brown ones, framed by long lashes.
They really were cute boys. Jamari, with his dark features, smooth skin, broad shoulders, and those dark eyes quickly made me forget about all the nonsense about Sebastian. Xavier looked younger, but his confidence gave off the air of maturity in spite of not having quite grown into his body.
Somehow over the noise Xavier communicated to Ryan that he and Jamari wanted to invite us girls to Jamari’s apartment.
“You guys are up for this, right?” Ryan asked, as she turned to Clara and me. With her eyes she begged us to agree.
“Sure,” I said, trying to give off more confidence than I had. I had never been to a strange boy’s apartment, but I tried to pretend like this was how I usually spent my Friday nights, going to a stranger’s apartment, dressed to party.
As the five of us walked out of the stadium, we were all laughing. I can’t remember who said what or what exactly was so funny, but we were having a good time. Xavier hailed a pod-bus for the five of us. We didn’t have to wait long as few others were leaving as the concert was only half over. The address Jamari entered into the pod was unfamiliar to me: somewhere on the south side where I rarely go.
After about twenty minutes, the pod-bus pulled in front of Jamari’s apartment. From the outside, it clearly was not as nice as ours, as the graffitied walls appeared to be crumbling, willing to fall at the slightest shove. After going down a dark stairwell, we approached a dim corner in the basement with a door that opened when it sensed Jamari’s presence. He held it open for us, and we all went inside.
The first thing I noticed inside the apartment was the odor: a faint smell of garlic overwhelmed by the more potent smell of body odor. It was what I imagined the boys’ locker room at Bramble High smelled like.
We weren’t the only ones in the dim, dank space. An older man—maybe 35—with rough, dark features and of short stature was seated on the couch, wearing a dirty tank top and a ratty pair of jeans and drinking out of an unmarked bottle. He clearly hadn’t bathed in several days, and had a large gut that spilled out over his pants. He raised his bottle in acknowledgement of our arrival, and went back to his chip programming.
Through his chip, Jamari turned on some music in the apartment—Restra, in honor of the concert we skipped out on. I was rather sick of the pop band at that point, but I tried to pretend like I was enjoying it and having a good time. Jamari poured each of us a drink. I was not sure what they were, but the strong smell of alcohol was impossible to miss. Not caring, I took a big chug of my drink and held my nose, as I tried to keep it down.
Before we had been there an hour, I had finished drinking that cup and most of a second that Jamari gladly poured for me. I could tell the alcohol was already going to my head, and the world appeared softer as I sat quietly on the couch.
After pouring the first round of drinks, Jamari had sat down between Clara and I, and Ryan was sitting in Xavier’s lap. It didn’t take long for Xavier to take Ryan back to a room in the back of the apartment. I would have been concerned if she hadn’t been laughing and stumbling as she walked down the hall. Let her have a little fun…what could it hurt?
Jamari had been talking equally to Clara and I—the volume of the music made it almost impossible for all three of us to join in on the same conversation—but after she had finished her second drink, she started to get quite affectionate towards him nuzzling his neck with her nose and running her hand up and down his arm. The more attention she gave to him the more he ignored me. I had seriously thought—or as seriously as I could think buzzed—about giving him a big smooch to turn his attention back toward me. Though I had found Jamari attractive, he clearly had made his choice betw
een Clara and me—or Clara and her alcohol-encouraged behavior made it for him—and it wasn’t me.
After a few more minutes of my feeling like the fifth wheel, Jamari and Clara headed back to the back of the apartment themselves without so much as a word of apology or invitation to me. I must admit it hurt to see him choose her and not even consider me worthy of a polite “We’ll be back later” or at least a “Nice to meet you, but your friend seems more willing to have fun than you are.”
Then it was just me on the couch and the older man in the recliner, who up until that point, had paid no attention to me. I continued to sip my second drink as I gladly turned off Respa and turned on Turn of the Millennium to fill the now quiet and too dull moments. I was having a hard time following the show, imagining what was happening in the back of the apartment, alternating between wanting and not wanting to know. After about 15 minutes of sitting in the quiet room, the older man noticed that the two of us were alone.
I wish he had never realized it.
Shattering
The next two weeks I went through all the motions of being Amala: I went to school, worked my afternoon shifts, and completed my homework, but I was not Amala. I avoided Mom as much as I could. Ryan wasn’t talking to me, mad at me for abandoning Clara and her at Jamari’s apartment. She didn’t know that I would never have left them alone in that apartment if they hadn’t first left me alone with that disgusting man.
I was a better student than I’d ever been. I completed all my homework and sat in the front of the class so I had less to distract me from my lectures. I didn’t have to redo missing homework or rewatch any of the lectures even once in the two weeks, the longest I’ve ever gone as a “perfect” student.
At work, I was getting more done than ever, getting closer to being able to turn my attention to the 2000s books. Hasan kept asking me what was wrong, but I kept pushing him off, giving excuses for my moods like difficult homework and problems with Mom. Actually, Mom and I had never gotten along this well before, as we had no reason to fight. I did everything she required of me without being asked. I was home on time and even helped with dinner. She hadn’t thought to question the change in my behavior. Hasan was the only one who noticed.
For all Mom knew, I was the perfect daughter. She didn’t seek to investigate why I was no longer questioning her authority and demanding my independence. If she had been asked about my new behavior, she probably would have explained it by saying I was maturing or perhaps that I had finally recognized her ways as right.
But I wasn’t perfect, and that was the problem. When I came home early the night of the concert, she didn’t even notice until the morning. When she asked why I was home so early from the scheduled sleepover, I told her that I had had a hard time sleeping, so I came home. After answering “fine” when she asked me how the concert was, we left it at that.
And that was the only word I’ve ever said about that night.
I even avoided the distraction of Beth’s journal. The 2000s didn’t hold much interest for me anymore. I now realized that something tragic can happen to an individual, not just a country. The worst part was that when it happened, you suffered alone.
I wished that I could keep the night of the concert out of my mind. Gone were the days when Sebastian and the 2000s were the focus of my daydreams. Every time I closed my eyes, that dirty man was standing over me, his hand reaching up the borrowed, blue dress.
I forced my memories to end there. I didn’t want to see any more of the way he touched my body or how he exposed himself to me. But that image of him standing over me, I couldn’t repress.
The only way I was able to sleep was by blasting Eminem—something I was never been able to sleep through until now. But for whatever reason, his music comforted me in a way that nothing else could.
It was just by accident that I stumbled across Beth’s journal over two weeks after the concert. I had hidden it under my sweaters, thinking I wouldn’t need them again that season, but that Tuesday afternoon I was shivering, so I reached for my most comfortable sweater: a large, baggy brown one. As I grabbed it out from the bottom of my drawer, my hand brushed the top of Beth’s journal. I could have left it and forgotten it again, but I felt pulled toward its familiar brown cover and dusty book smell once again.
I picked it up and read.
October 10, 2001
I don’t know where to begin. I thought that my journal entry four weeks ago would be the saddest thing I’d ever have to write. But tragedy on a personal level has a way of shaking your world’s foundation in a way a national tragedy doesn’t quite reach.
Wow, Beth has come to the same realization I have had. I was scared to read why she had come the same conclusion I had. Still, I read on.
Last night we were having family dinner, same as every Wednesday night. I was looking forward to going with Faith to youth group afterwards, something I had begun doing a few weeks back. Ever since September 11th, Meg has made it a point to make it back for Wednesday dinner, which Mom and Dad appreciated.
Just as I was clearing away my dishes and about to go into the kitchen to pull out the brownies I baked for dessert, Dad asked me to sit back down as he reached out for Mom’s hand. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen, but I don’t think I’d seen that serious look on his face before, not even when he picked me up from school early on September 11th.
“Meg, Beth, we wanted to let you know: your mother and I are separating.”
I’m not exactly sure what I said to that, but I do remember angry words coming to mind, and many of them spilling out of my mouth. I know the first thought I had was that it must be a joke. A cruel, cruel joke but still, just a joke. I looked from Dad to Mom and saw in their eyes pain, but truth. I looked at Meg wanting her to say something, do something, but she didn’t seem to panic like I did.
“I’m not surprised,” she said, after I finished my rambling outrage. I then turned my rage on her...how could she not be surprised? “Make sure you each invite me to your second weddings. I’ll see if I have room in my schedule to come.” Then she stormed out the front door.
Apparently, Mom had been sleeping in the guest room for some time, though I hadn’t a clue. Meg knew as it was right next to her room. Actually, I think Meg knew a lot more than she was letting on.
Dad is moving out this weekend. He has an apartment fifteen minutes from here (and closer to work), but he promises Meg and I will see him as much as we do now. I don’t know how…I don’t think we’ll be having family dinners again anytime soon.
As I was leaving the table to come to my room, Mom and Dad were telling Meg that they had meant to tell us the week of September 11th, but put it off to not disturb us more. I can’t believe that night that we watched A Charlie Brown Christmas was a fraud.
October 11, 2001
This morning when I saw Faith in history class, she asked me why I hadn’t made it to youth group last night. I just told her “things came up,” but she could tell something was wrong. She asked me to come over after school, so I did.
Faith was so encouraging—encouraging in ways I had hoped Meg would be. After giving me a big hug, she shared with me that her parents had separated when she was younger, though they ended up working things out and getting back together after living apart for 6 months.
She also shared with me these verses from 2 Corinthians 1:
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”
She told me that because she had received comfort from God when her parents were separated, she could now share that comfort with me. Just being with Faith was a great comfort...I’m thankful to have a true friend, even though I think God is not a good god if He puts me through this. Or perhaps he’s just not big enough to keep two people together.
Apart from living through September 11th, I had thought Beth’s life was pretty perfect. Sure, her teacher was mean and her parents didn’t understand her (whose do?), but she seemed to have a good life.
This separation certainly didn’t sound like something she was expecting. I’ve never dealt with divorce or separation myself—the culture has changed so much. Like many families today, my parents never married and never lived together. They always lived separately even after I was born, though they still considered themselves a couple. Growing up, Dad came around occasionally, but really didn’t have a big part in our lives, as he’s as busy as Mom. When they would take time for each other, they’d usually go to his apartment that he had to himself since his parents passed away. I’ve never really considered what it would be like to have both parents live with you expecting them to stay together.
Reading Beth’s journal made me realize how hurt I would be if Dad had lived here and decided to move out. It’d be like if Mom decided to move out, leaving Chester and me behind. As much as she annoyed me sometimes and didn’t know how to cook, I would feel abandoned if she left.
I could see how that verse was a comfort; it was comforting to think about a God who is a comforter. I never really thought about God being anything more than a guy in heaven getting his kicks watching us squirm and wiggle under his devious plots, like he was a great choose-your-own adventure mastermind.
The God that Beth and Faith were talking about was someone altogether different, though. He apparently was loving and good.
If this book, the Bible, was a comfort to Beth in her situation, maybe it would comfort me in mine. If it didn’t condemn me first.
The Journal Page 6