by A J Walkley
“Not really. No, I guess not.”
“Then what?”
“I still want to know you, G. Just because we’re not -”
“‘Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean we can’t be buds?’ Actually, I think it’s exactly what it means.” I moved past her without another word. She didn’t try to catch me.
Instead of going to get my books for first period, I went to the girl’s bathroom on the second floor. Before I made it inside, a couple of guys I recognized as being on the hockey team whistled after me. When I turned they both had their fingers over their mouths in a ‘V’, sticking their tongues through. I scoffed and opened the door.
Safe in a stall I sat down on the floor and tried to breathe. The first encounter was over and I had survived; barely.
I put my hand inside my jacket and took out the box cutter I had bought the night before at Staples. I remembered how it seemed funny just how easy it was to buy weapons when they were marketed for other purposes. I opened my palm and dug it in. It made a lot more sense to cut my hand since it already had lines built in. Talk about a disguise. Once the blood dried, nobody would know the difference.
***
My English assignment for finals was kind of a joke: Write a mimic of a poem of your choice. I figured I could knock that out in half an hour or less. So, when the bell rang to end the day during that first week of December, I went to the library instead of heading home.
In the section labeled “Literature: Poetry” I began to browse. It was in an anthology of American Poets that I found Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish.” I didn’t think it was interesting because of the topic – I hated the thought of fishing for sport. But her style called out to me and I checked the book out.
Instead of walking back to my house, I decided to go to the man-made duck pond, always absent of ducks, in the park a couple of miles away. The walk was refreshing, letting me clear my head. When I got there, I found a flat rock to sit on and took out a notebook.
Okay, Greer. What can you write about instead of a fish? I asked myself.
Within moments I had an inspiration and started to write. An hour later, I read over my poem:
The Cut
I fashioned a heinous cut
and observed as the skin curled
opposing ways, newly exposed
at the underside of my wrist.
It didn’t bleed.
It hadn’t bled at all.
It lay there on the verge,
pulsing and precarious
and tender. And within
the pink skin would pucker
like cooling oatmeal,
and its undulating edges
were like the oatmeal:
ripples like rutted grains
rough and moist below.
It was intersected with veins,
thin broken vessels,
and infected
with specks of razor rust,
and under epidermis
cells began to repair.
While the broken skin took in
the excess of oxygen
- the scandalous slice,
slick with body sap,
that heals incredibly –
I thought of the raw pink tissue
serrated like beef,
the life liquid dripping down,
the glossy crimsons and reds
of the ravaged lesion,
and the bruised flesh around
like a distended tongue.
I looked into its nook
which was deeper than I thought
but narrower, and precise,
the walls straight and well defined
with the razorblade’s rim
beside me on the bed
patterned into my arm.
It shrank as it began to heal
but retained its shape.
- It was more like the finding
of a hole in hallow ground.
I considered the incision,
the length of a ballpoint pen cap,
and then I saw
that below this rare scratch
- if you could call it a scratch -
small, stark, and permanent,
were seven tan scars in a row,
one exceeding the one after
in increments down my arm,
a plain tattoo shirking
the cleft of my elbow.
Two dipped lines, white in the core
where I mutilated, four squat lines,
and one blatant blotch
still sore from the day before
when on an impulse cut too deep.
Like photographs of past times
scared and insecure,
a seven-branded bracelet
of turmoil on my arm.
I stared and stared
and bile began to rise
ascending to my throat,
from the stomach pit
where pills had disintegrated
in the acidic mixture
contained by an acidic tomb,
the blistered shell,
reflex from within,
the gullet – until everywhere
was vomit, vomit, vomit!
And I bandaged the cut.
Reading it over, I thought it was a damn good mimic, sure to get me an A on the assignment. Plus, I felt like I had released all of my pent-up feelings just by writing about cutting.
Surely a much healthier release, no?
***
I handed in my final before any of my classmates the next day, eager to get feedback. It was Friday again and I hadn’t seen Rebecca the whole week. I felt like I was getting some semblance of a life back, even if I knew I’d collapse again if she reappeared.
When I got home, I intended to plop down in the living room and watch some junk TV. What I found when I got there, however, was much better: the old green Dodge in the driveway. I ran the last few yards into the house.
“Dad?”
“In here, G-Bee!” He was sitting on the couch, Miller Lite in hand, watching an episode of Heroes I had recorded for him on Tivo. I jumped into his lap.
“How are you? How was the trip?” He kissed me on the head, put his beer on the table and hugged me.
“Longer than expected. Sorry I didn’t call. We had to take the long way. The Border Police are really cracking down.”
“But everyone made it alright?”
“What do you take me for? Of course they did!” He ruffled my hair and pushed me into the seat beside him on the couch. “I brought back something for us. Want to go for a ride?”
“Absolutely.”
We both climbed into his beat-up car and headed for one of the parks on the edge of town. I was excited, knowing that our newfound ritual would come into play.
Right before Dad had left on this last adventure, he had caught me sitting on the roof outside my window, smoking a bowl and looking at the stars. I remembered how my breath caught in my throat when I heard him behind me, and I started coughing. Instead of yelling at me, he just climbed out and sat next to me, took the pipe and the lighter from my hands and, without a word, took a hit. He handed it back to me, smiled and looked up like I had been.
“You know, G-Bee, I’m down with this stuff, but just make sure you have your head on your shoulders. Don’t let it get the best of you. You still have a lot of school to get through.”
“I know, Dad. Don’t worry, it’s under control.” He ruffled my hair and went back inside.
Driving through the shadows the trees made on the back streets, Dad told me to open the glove compartment and take out the tin of mints. Looking inside I found a perfectly rolled joint and a box of matches.
“Go for it, baby. Spark it up!” He winked at me and kept driving. I did as I was told. There was nothing quite like that first pull of dank, heady weed. After two tokes, I passed it to him.
“It’s really a mess down there, Greer. These people have next to nothing and they’re b
lowing their life-savings to get into the US. I feel bad taking it from them, you know? $2,000 per person is not too bad considering how much I’m risking to help them, but it’s all they’ve got. I don’t know how most of them make it once they’re inside.”
He passed it back to me.
“That’s tough, Dad. I wish I could go down there with you some time.”
“Not on my watch. I’ve been lucky but it’s a dangerous profession. People are shot more often than not, you know? Plus, a lot of people can’t survive the miles of walking through desert to come within spitting distance of the US.”
“But you have, a billion times!” I exhaled through my nose, feeling the slight burn in my nostrils. “You haven’t gotten shot, or caught. So why wouldn’t I be able to come with you?”
“Because, Greer, every single time is a risk. Plus, you’ve heard about the kidnappings down there, haven’t you?”
“Not really.” I had heard about that girl a while back in Aruba, but nothing in Mexico.
“When you’re in a tight position like the majority of these folks, you’ll do anything to get out of it. Some have kidnapped American kids they can get their hands on for the ransom money. If these people saw a pretty white girl like you, what do you think their first inclination would be?”
“Geez, that’s scary.”
“Yeah. So, moral of the story, you ain’t coming, G-Bee!” Again with the hair ruffle. I had missed that.
The pinner my Dad had rolled was down to the filter. I offered it to him but he waved it away. I threw the roach out the window.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, kiddo. Anything. What’s on your mind?”
Ugh, what was I going to say? Would he get it?
“Well, I just broke up with someone. Actually, I was the one who was broken up with.”
“Was it Cameron? I’ll kick him in the nuts!” he kidded, though the fire behind his eyes told me he actually would.
“No, that’s another story all together,” I laughed nervously.
“Really? How come I didn’t know about this? A guy wants to know who his daughter is dating!”
He winked at me. Oh man.
“Yeah. This was the first relationship I’ve ever had like this so, you know, it’s been really hard now that it’s over. Especially because I see her at school every -”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I hear you right? I could’ve sworn you just said her.” We had reached the park. Dad pulled to the side of the road and parked the car. All of a sudden we were surrounded by silence.
It had slipped out, but I couldn’t take it back. I looked at my dad and said, “Yes. Her.” I held my breath for a moment, the blood pumping loudly through my veins. “What do you think?”
The look of shock on his face became a goofy grin seconds later. “I think that’s wonderful, Greer.” He reached over the e-break and hugged me. “I’m so glad you told me.”
Love, relief, excitement and disbelief welled up inside me. I released my breath.
“Really, Dad?”
“Of course! Are you kidding? Half of my fatherly fears are gone. No pregnancy scares!” I guess he was right. I just never thought he would be so accepting. “You know, Greer, I had wild days of my own way back when.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Dad?”
“Ha, ha, don’t look so shocked!”
“I don’t think I’m ready for those stories yet, Dad.”
“Fair enough. I love you, G-Bee. No matter what. You know that?” He hugged me again, kissed my forehead.
“I do now.” I squeezed his hand before stepping out of the car. We walked through the park for the rest of the afternoon. I could have stayed there forever with him. He understood me. This was better than I had hoped for.
“Just, don’t tell Mom,” I made him promise before we headed home.
***
The last week of February, I took the initiative Jill had recommended and sat down at a new table in the caf for lunch.
Known as the Goths, it seemed like the only thing gothic about them was their choice of fashion. Even though all nine of them had a visible preference for black attire, they seemed like any other group in school. They laughed and joked while they ate, smiling regardless of the stereotype they were attempting to conform to.
One of the girls, Marcy, I recognized from Becca’s and my math class. I caught her between the lunch line and her table.
“Hey, Marcy?” I asked hesitantly.
She turned and walked toward me. “Yeah?”
“This may seem random, but is it cool if I eat with you and your friends?” As per usual, I inwardly cringed. I hoped I didn’t sound as pathetic as I thought I did.
But instead of being shot down, Marcy’s face brightened. “Of course! You’re Greer, right? Fin’s class?”
I let my guard down, relieved as we walked to the table. “Yeah. What did you think of the last exam?”
“That totally blew,” she said before we reached her friends. “Hey guys, this is Greer.”
Sixteen eyes instantly focused on me.
“Hey, Greer,” they all said in unison.
Laughing, I said, “Hey everyone.”
Marcy went around, introducing me to the group. By the end of the period, I felt like these kids had definite potential. How could you pass up a bunch of teenagers who accepted you, no questions asked?
“You do anything long enough to escape the habit of living until the escape becomes the habit.”
- David Ryan
MARCH
I wanted to make good on my promise to Dad. I realized that, despite what I had told him, I did have a problem; maybe not all with the dope, but certainly with my newest coping mechanism. I was cutting every day, whether I had a reason to or not. Most of the time I cut my palm, but once that became too tender, I moved on to other places. I suppose that was my first mistake.
One Thursday afternoon in Mr. Riley’s class I gave a presentation on presidential campaigns. Despite my original distaste for the subject, Mr. Riley was very passionate about politics and voting and it was brushing off on me.
I stood in front of the class, displaying a beautiful poster collage of presidential candidates throughout American history behind me. Being the final presentation of the day, I wasn’t surprised that most of the class was falling asleep. Mr. Riley was all ears though.
“The millions upon millions of dollars both the Democratic and Republican parties raise for their political campaigns boggles my mind. When the candidates are seen on television, standing up and talking about the issues, I cannot help but feel like they are all being very hypocritical. If you care about, say, getting the homeless off the street, why aren’t you using the massive stockpiles of money you’ve been raising to do just that? Wouldn’t that be a better campaign strategy than simply talking about what you would do if you were elected? The old adage, ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ comes to mind here. There’s no doubt in my mind that if I actually saw a candidate doing what he or she promised that I would be much more likely to vote for them.
“Instead, these millions of dollars they are asking American citizens to donate are going to a variety of places, including salaries for all of those people calling us at dinnertime every night; the short, two minute commercials that praise one candidate and bash their opponent; and all of the other advertisements and travel expenses incurred over the lifespan of a campaign. Does that bother anyone else? How much more money can the politicians of this country waste instead of putting it to good use?”
Not even half done with my spiel, the bell rang and the classroom emptied in a matter of seconds.
“Sorry, Greer, but you’ll have to finish next time.”
“Eh, that’s okay.” I began to pack up my things and head home myself.
“Greer?” I turned around. Mr. Riley was sitting on the edge of his desk with a furrowed brow. “Would you mind sticking around and talking to me for a few minutes?”
/> Confused, but curious, I consented. Before saying anything more, he got up and closed the door, giving us privacy. I was sure he didn’t want to talk about my grades. I had been getting A’s on every assignment all semester. I sat down in the desk closest to his and waited for him to sit down again, too.
“I don’t know how to word this exactly. I’m concerned, Greer.”
“Concerned?” I immediately wracked my brain to think what could have alarmed him. I had nothing.
“I’ve noticed something that you probably didn’t intend for me to, and I feel like I need to say something.” Staring at him I noticed his gaze shift to my arms, so I did the same. It was only then that I realized how stupid I had been. I had pushed my sleeves up when I was presenting, revealing at least three gashes in my forearm.
“Shit.” I couldn’t look at him anymore.
“Is this something you want to talk about?” I was silent. I didn’t know how to answer him. I wondered if I should deny it; say they were from my cat or something. “You know, Greer, we all have our demons.”
“What?” Could Mr. Riley be a cutter, too, I wondered.
“I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine, okay?”
I nodded.
“I have been struggling with my own vice for many years now.” He cleared his throat. I didn’t know why he was telling me this. “I have a drinking problem.”
“You do?” The constriction in my chest seemed to release a bit when he said this. He had an addiction like me.
“Yes. And something I’ve found that has really helped is talking to people; especially people who are going through the same things as me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know anyone else who does this,” I said, gesturing to my arm with my chin.
“Maybe not, but I know some people who are going through something similar. Addicts are kind of the same in a lot of ways, no matter what their addiction.”
“Yeah?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
“This might sound strange to you, and I might even be over-stepping my bounds, but I was wondering if you would like to go to a meeting with me.” He looked hopeful.
“What kind of meeting?”
“An AA meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous. Like I said, it’s not the same, but I think a lot of the things we talk about can be applied to you. To your situation.” He stopped there. He let me take it in.
