Neither one of us made a sound. We just stared at her, waiting to be dismissed. There’d be no next time. I’d avoid being humiliated again at all cost. You can mark my words on that, bride of Satan.
As we headed toward the bus ramp, Jackson took my books like he always did. “You okay?” he asked.
I felt my eyes sting and tried to sniff back the waterworks before he noticed. I couldn’t answer him. I could only bite my bottom lip and concentrate on walking. Otherwise, I’d burst into tears.
Memories of how Tracy and Wendy had mistreated me over the years flooded my mind. Those two had done things to me, which were far worse than playing with someone’s hair––hateful things, like pushing me down in a mud hole at recess and ruining my entire outfit in second grade. Stealing my sack lunch from my desk, throwing it in the trash can, and then spitting on it was their third-grade thrill. In fourth grade, they followed me down every aisle in the library, shoving me into the bookcases, saying, “Excuse you!” right in my face, then gave me the most painful wedgie in the history of wedgies.
The famous “IHR Club” was formed in fifth grade by Tracy and Wendy, the club’s President and VP. They recruited the entire class, even invited Jackson to join, then laughed when he asked what the club was about. We found out why they thought it was so funny. IHR stood for “I Hate Rebecca.” Jackson said it really stood for “I Have Rabies,” and we had our own little laugh.
And in sixth grade, they did one of the most horrible things ever. It was Tracy’s birthday and she invited every girl in our entire class to her slumber party. Every girl but me. That night around eight-thirty, Tracy called and said she’d somehow lost my invitation and asked if I wanted to come over and spend the night. I remember how excited I was, thinking I was finally included. But when I told her I had to ask my parents, all the girls in the background start giggling.
“It’s a joke, Rebecca!” Tracy said, laughing hysterically. “I’d never ask you to spend the night. Are you kidding? I don’t want you bringing your bed bugs to my house!” The girls screamed with laughter, and Tracy hung up.
I remember running to my room, falling onto my bed, and crying my eyes out until I fell asleep. That hurt me so bad. I wanted to poison them all.
I know God says we should love our enemies, but I didn’t even like Tracy and Wendy. How in the world could I love them? I wished somebody would bully them for a change or beat the shit out of them. And I wished it was me. I wanted to give them a taste of their own medicine, show them what it felt like to be bullied, belittled, and humiliated. But I knew I’d never drop to their level because that’s not the kind of person I am. My heart wouldn’t let me hurt someone intentionally. If I did something like that, I’d be no different than them. I just wanted to be bolder. I wanted to have the guts to stand up for myself and put them in their place and make them leave me alone.
Jackson and I took our usual seat on the bus. He looked at me with troubled eyes. “Rebecca, would you please talk to me? I know you’re upset because you’re chewing your bottom lip.” When I didn’t respond, he let out a big sigh. “If you’re embarrassed about Mrs. Smith, who cares? She’s an old hag anyway. And if you’re letting those stupid girls bother you, don’t. They’re assholes, and everyone knows it. They’ve been jealous of you their entire lives.”
I lifted my eyes and bit my lip harder to keep it from quivering.
“They can’t stand it because you’re so smart, and so nice, and so pretty. And they’re… Well… They’re not! I swear, they’d give anything to make you feel bad, so when you let them upset you like this, that’s exactly what they want.”
The bus started rolling, and so did my tears. I looked out the window and thought about what he had said. I couldn’t keep anything from Jackson. He was my best friend. He was my only friend. I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and told Jackson about all the times I’d felt rejected, alone, and simply not good enough, and how I used to go to bed at night and pray that God would change me so people would like me because all I wanted was to be accepted. When I was finished, I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt but continued to cry.
Jackson reached over and took my hand. “Rebecca Sharp, you listen to me. You aren’t the one who needs to change. They are. Understand? They’re the ones with ugly hearts, not you. Yours is kind and pure. You are a wonderful, amazing person. Beautiful inside and out, worthy of love, and anyone who can’t see that has a problem. A big problem. You hear me? Starting today, no more crying over anything those freaks do or say. Got it? And no more praying for God to change you so that people will like you! Are you kidding me? The right people love you just the way you are. Their words don’t define you, Rebecca. You are accepted. You are worthy. And you are loved.” He squeezed my hand, then lifted it to his lips and gently kissed it.
My heart was pounding. I wanted to hug him and kiss him on the mouth. I wondered where he’d learned to talk like that. Had he been watching The Guiding Light with Mrs. Ruby? It didn’t matter. He meant every word. I took a deep breath and hugged him. “Thank you,” I whispered. He was the amazing one. I couldn’t help but ponder, would he ever know just how much he meant to me?
Eighth, ninth, and tenth grades were a lot easier for me. Mainly, because I listened to Jackson that day on the bus. I tried to be less concerned about how my classmates treated me and focus more on my grades instead. The harassment hadn’t stopped, and the insults weren’t any less malicious, but I was getting better at ignoring it. Most of the time, it was just a bunch of dirty looks or some silly name-calling. Miss Goody Two Shoes, Teacher’s Pet, Chicken Legs, and Pancake Chest were the main ones. I was picked on for having long legs, boney knees and elbows, and no boobs, none of which I could control, other than maybe stuffing my bra. I didn’t mind being part of the itty-bitty-titty committee. I was making straight A’s and didn’t care much about having an hourglass figure.
I dreamed of doing something extraordinary with my life, and college was the answer. It would be my escape, my catapult. Until then, my only interest was Jackson. He was my rock, my safe haven. Although he didn’t always hear every ugly remark or witness every deliberate shove, he didn’t tolerate it when he did. He even stood up to a teacher, the slimeball, Mr. Pittman, when he made fun of my eyeshadow. Boy, do I remember that day. Major humiliation.
It was our tenth-grade year, and I had just started wearing a little bit of makeup. Most of the girls in my class had already been wearing full-face makeup for years. They tried to copy all the models in Seventeen magazine but ended up looking like they were wearing war paint because they didn’t know how to apply it. A few girls, including Tracy and Wendy, were fooling around with boys too. They’d always brag about it in the locker room, talking loud enough for everyone to hear how they were “doin’ it.” They’d tell stories about sneaking off to the woods with boys to drink beer, smoke cigarettes, and have sex. Getting drunk and making out with senior guys seemed to be something they were proud of, and it was no secret their popularity grew with every blowjob they gave. Have fun getting herpes and lung cancer, was what I thought about that.
Mr. Pittman, our English teacher, liked to throw insults around as if it was a sport. He was about forty, I guess, kinda on the slim side, with short legs and small shoulders. He had thick, black hair, and wide, bushy eyebrows, and he wore thin-framed reading glasses. He tried to dress preppy, like he was some Harvard professor or something, but he wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was. Wearing slacks, collared shirts, and sweaters, he ended up looking like a stumpy version of Mr. Rogers. To me, he was just conceited, sarcastic, and mean. Basically, he was a complete asshole, and I didn’t like him at all, or his breath.
As I entered the classroom, Mr. Pittman yelled, “There’s a fungus among us!”
Clueless, I took my seat as he said it again, even louder. I thought, What a creep. Then I looked around and noticed everyone was staring at me, and Mr. Pittman was approaching my desk, smiling that fake-ass smile of his.
Wait, is he talking about me?
“What’s that on your eyes, Rebecca?” He smirked. “It looks like you’re growing a fungus!”
Everyone began to point at me and laugh, especially Tracy and Wendy. Blood rushed to my face. I tried to control my breathing, but with the roar of laughter, there was no use.
“Speak up, Fungus Among Us!” he yelled, and the laughter grew louder.
I wanted to run out of the room, but I couldn’t move. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. How dare Mr. Pittman be so cruel! I hated him and everyone who laughed. Frozen in utter disgrace, my eyes flooded with tears.
“How about you shut the hell up!” someone from the back of the room yelled.
The class fell silent. Every head, including Mr. Pittman’s, snapped around to identify the defiant hero. I was still paralyzed, but I recognized the voice.
“Don’t speak to her that way, you jerk!”
It was Jackson.
“What did you say, boy?” Mr. Pittman marched toward Jackson, his mouth so puckered it looked like an asshole on his face.
Jackson raised his voice, “I said don’t speak to her that way!”
“And?” Mr. Pittman demanded.
Balling up his fists, Jackson took two steps forward. “I called you a jerk!”
“Right! And what else?”
With just inches between them, Jackson towered over our teacher. Through clenched teeth, Jackson repeated himself, “I said… How about you shut the hell up! Are you deaf, asshole?”
“Ha!” Mr. Pittman backed up a step. “That’s what I thought you said.” He chuckled. “No, I’m not deaf. But you’re gonna wish I was when you explain yourself to the principal. And you can go do that, wise guy. Right now!” With those last two words, Mr. Pittman poked Jackson in the chest with his stubby index finger.
Jackson slapped his hand away, causing Mr. Pittman to flinch. “Great idea!” Jackson growled. “And I’ll be sure to tell the principal how you harassed my girl!”
“Your girl, huh?” Mr. Pittman sucked his teeth. “It figures.”
“That’s right. Don’t you forget it,” Jackson hissed. He had taken another step forward and was inches from Mr. Pittman’s face, fuming. “And don’t ever touch me again, you nasty-ass booger eater!”
The muscles in Mr. Pittman’s face twitched as he stood staring up at Jackson through slits in his eyes. He flung his arm up, pointing to the door. “Get out!” he screamed.
My eyes were glued on Jackson, his creased forehead, and his clenched jaw. He whirled around so fast it almost knocked Mr. Pittman backward. Jackson busted through the door, muttering curse words and pounded down the hall toward the office. My heart jumped in my throat. He had just called out our teacher for eating his boogers, something we’d all witnessed at least a dozen times. I hoped that embarrassed ol’ Pittman as much as he’d embarrassed me. And then it occurred to me, Jackson had called me his girl. Did he really mean it? Confused and afflicted, I grabbed my things and ran out the door after Jackson, leaving the buffoons and their mockery behind.
The last two years in high school seemed to fly by. Mostly because we were finally old enough to drive, but also because Katie Hillman moved to town the summer before our junior year, and the three of us nearly set the world on fire.
Katie was a five-foot-ten beauty with flawless skin and long, curly, strawberry-blond hair. It was actually more blond than strawberry because she dyed it once a month. Her perfect figure was every swimsuit model’s dream. And her eyes couldn’t be any greener if she wore contacts. Most people thought she was a snobby bitch, but she wasn’t. She was a little on the shy side, very reserved, and way more confident than anyone else I knew. Her dry sense of humor and her un-ladylike vocabulary were two of her most distinguishing qualities. Bottom line, she didn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit. Where was she when I needed her in elementary school?
We had met Katie the first Saturday of summer break. She was alone at the beach, and I noticed her watching Jackson and me throwing the Frisbee, so I invited her to join us, unaware she was a Harlem Globetrotter with a Frisbee.
She put her hair in a ponytail, pulled a T-shirt over her bathing suit, and schooled us both with her mad skills. She was amazing and funny and cool, and that’s when it all began. The three of us were beach bums the entire summer. By the time school started, we were brown as eggs and thick as thieves, but still no better at Frisbee, at least not Jackson and me.
School didn’t slow us down a bit. If we weren’t at the beach, we were either keeping the roads hot or cheering for Jackson at some sporting event. He was a four-sport athlete, so he stayed busy year-round. Katie and I kept the student section on their feet for all the football and basketball games. Jackson was a rockstar for both, playing wide-receiver and point guard. In the spring, he was the captain of our soccer team and our state record-setting distance runner for track. We attended all those events too. We were absolutely his biggest fans, especially me. I ogled over his hot bod so much it made me thirsty.
In all seriousness, we were far more loyal than his parents ever were. I’d bet money we attended more of Jackson’s games in a single month than his parents had attended his whole life. Mrs. Ruby, Jackson’s granny, was even more supportive than his parents were, and she was in her seventies. Sweet Mrs. Ruby. It was always fun having her around, especially at the basketball games. We’d sit with her on the bottom bleacher, making sure she had a nice, thick seat cushion and plenty of Coke and popcorn. She liked to be close to the court and cheer for Jackson, but Katie and I knew she really got a kick out of heckling the refs.
“I can’t believe you missed that foul!” she’d shout. Then she’d say, “These refs are about as useless as a comb to a bald man!” She was as entertaining as the game itself and always so proud of Jackson.
I once asked Mrs. Ruby why Jackson’s parents never came to any of his games.
Her response was, “His momma’s too busy, and his daddy’s too sorry.”
I didn’t understand it. Jackson was their only child, and he’d be graduating soon. Wasn’t he important enough for them to at least make the tournaments or playoff games? Katie and I had private conversations, which always ended with her saying his parents would be the ones who regretted it in the long run, and they could both go straight to hell for all she cared. That was Katie, brutally honest and no-frills. She was gifted in getting right to the point. That’s one of the reasons most people didn’t like her. And one of the reasons I always did.
Chapter Five
Jackson
Monday, February 26, 1990 ~ Father of the Year
I walked through the front door and saw my dad passed out in the recliner with the television blaring. As usual, he had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, still lit and burned almost all the way up to the filter. It’s a wonder he hadn’t burned the house down as many times as he’d fallen asleep smoking. Sometimes I wished he would. Sometimes I wished he’d catch himself on fire and burn up with the whole damn house. Good for nothing piece of shit. It blew my mind my mom still let him come around. It’s not like they had a real marriage or anything. And he certainly wasn’t a daddy to me. All he ever cared to do was mooch off her, get drunk, then yell and curse and push her around.
The first time I saw him actually hit her I was twelve. I ran screaming at him to stop, punching him with all my might, swinging both hands. I connected with his chin and his cheek before he threw me across the room. I remember thinking if my grandpa had been alive to see it, he’d put a bullet hole right between his eyes. Grandpa never had any use for my dad. Neither did I. He was nothing but a drunk. A drunk with a bad temper. He used to whip me a lot when I was little. But after I hit my teens, he stopped whipping me, and threw punches instead.
The kitchen light was off, so I expected Momma was still at work. I thought she’d be proud to know we had won the game. It was a tough one, physical, almost like playing street ball. And the refs were horrible. But we pulled o
ut ahead in the end, and thankfully, Granny didn’t get thrown out. I walked by the coffee table and picked up the remote and turned off the television.
“Turn the fuckin’ TV back on!” Dad yelled. He sat up, put the cigarette in his mouth, and threw the beer can at my face, tagging me right across my eyebrow before I had a chance to duck.
I immediately felt the cold sting and cursed him under my breath.
“Who do you think you are, you little bastard! Comin’ in and turnin’ off my TV! Gimme that fuckin’ remote!”
I was clenching my teeth, trying to stay calm. Without saying a word, I looked him dead in the eye and placed the TV remote on the arm of the recliner as I walked past him.
“Get your ass in there and make me somethin’ to eat!” he yelled, as I walked through the kitchen towards my bedroom.
“It’s almost eleven, Dad. I have school tomorrow.” As soon as the words crossed my lips, I regretted saying them. I heard the recliner fold up with a loud whack.
Dad barreled through the kitchen, screaming out profanities, and the next thing I knew, his thick fingernails were digging into the skin on the back of my neck, setting me on fire. He grabbed me and threw me into the wall, knocking my backpack and gym bag off my shoulder and ramming my face into the door frame of my bedroom.
As I fell to my hands and knees, I had to bite my lip to keep quiet. His boot was coming toward me, but there was nowhere to go. I turned my head to keep from getting struck in the face and felt the pain in my ribs instead. I gasped, feeling as though I’d been stabbed with a knife. He cursed me again and delivered another kick to my stomach. The pain was suffocating. I collapsed to the floor and tried to pull my knees toward my chest, but moving only made me want to throw up.
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