The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  My mother sweet-talks a guy for a jump. She talks to herself all the way home. But not to me. She knows better.

  She tries to turn on the radio. I punch it off. Literally.

  The next morning Sleeping Booty actually wakes up when it’s barely light out. She throws a bunch of clothes into a Hefty bag.

  I grab a Sharpie so I can sign Zane’s neck.

  We run out of gas and have to hitch a ride home. The driver wants to kill us but that’s only because me and mother won’t stop fighting. He tells us to get out a block away from home. My mother heads off to a “friend’s” house. I walk home alone. That’s when the neighbors tell me CPS has been knocking on doors looking for me. They took Zane from the hospital. (See A for All About You.) I tell my neighbor to tell my mother I’m at George’s.

  I run to George’s house. He answers the door. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his helmet and coat on. His hair is black and thick and sweaty except in one spot where a scar runs across his scalp.

  I can see George’s mom sitting in front of the television. “Is Valentina here?”

  Valentina. George’s dead sister.

  George: “No, no, no. Macy.”

  His mom takes a long time to stand up. She blinks like her brain is erasing whatever it had drawn over me. I think maybe she only stands up when she has to go to the bafroom.

  George: “Mommy, you can sit down.” That’s the first time I’ve ever heard George speak in a complete sentence.

  Me: “Uh. George. Uh. I need . . . Can I . . .” God, am I really asking him what I’m asking? “St—st—”

  George: “Steak?”

  Me again: “St— St— Steak? Yes. I need steak.”

  George makes me a steak.

  Don’t take long before CPS gets to me. The neighbors told my mother and everyone else—including 3211—where I was.

  George tells his mom, “Tell CPS, Mommy. Okay? Macy stay. Macy, mom, okay?” And she tells the CPS worker: She can stay.

  The house is clean. No cockroaches. Food in the fridge. Steak and rice on the table. The worker lets me stay.

  I stay two weeks. George keeps a clean floor. It’s cleaner than my kitchen table.

  I HEART George.

  As soon as CPS is out the picture, I go back home. Daddy’s out on probation. But there’s no barbecue, no cake as I had always imagined it. “How could you let this happen?” he keeps asking Yasmin, and as mad as I’ve been at my mom, I know that’s bullshit.

  Losing Zane was a group effort.

  He punches holes in the wall that I have to plaster. He breaks a window I have to replace with one from the junkyard. It’s the first time I’m madder at him than my mother. Shit, he had heat in prison. He didn’t have to worry about freezing to death. We do.

  When the lights come flashing down our block, we know they’re for him.

  “I’m sorry, Yasmin. I’m supposed to be the man of the house! Why am I like this? Macy, I’m sorry!” He falls to his knees and cries.

  I don’t think I ever saw him cry before. Not even when Baby Girl died. Daddy had finally run out of gas.

  Give Up

  Verb.

  When I get home, I see my mother has been here but left. I flip through the mail on the table. Somebody’s got to look through more than the Victoria’s Secret ads. I find it torn open. Paperwork from CPS.

  It’s like finding a book about you in the library. I turn the pages. Some things about life are forgettable. Like no one remembers how many times they’ve read STOP on a stop sign. Some things are so real they are a part of you. They aren’t just a thought. They’re like a organ. A part of your brain. You want to cut it out, but if you do you know it will kill you.

  Yasmin MYOFB has given up her rights to Zane . . . Zane will be adopted by—My mother walks through the doors screaming into her phone.

  Me: “Zane’s going to be adopted? What the fuck, Ma!”

  My mother into the phone: “Just sign the papers, Daddy. What? And you’re gonna do for Zane what needs to be done? We never have but we’re gonna get our shit together now?”

  Me: “Give me the phone!”

  My mother pushes past me, runs into her room and locks the door.

  Me with the papers in my hand: “I will set these on fire, Ma!”

  My mother behind her door: “Shut up, Macy! You don’t have a say! Do what’s right, Augustine! Let him go!”

  I body-slam the door but it don’t budge. “I don’t have a say? He’s my brother!” Oh fuck, is he my brother? Will he still be my brother?

  My mother: “He’s your brother but remember you’re not and never was his mother! He don’t belong to you. It’s not your decision!”

  Me: “He don’t belong to me? He don’t belong to you!”

  My mother: “That’s right, he don’t belong to me. Anymore. He belongs where he’s at.”

  Me: “Give me the phone, Ma. I want to talk to Daddy! Give it to me now or—”

  My mother: “Or what, Macy? Nothing you’re gonna break is going to change anything.”

  I fly into the living room. Fling couch cushions at the TV and the windows. Stomp into the kitchen and throw all the bills on the floor. Knock over the table. No brain is made to think what I’m thinking. No heart to feel what I’m feeling. But there’s nothing left to break that hasn’t been broken. Nothing except me.

  Gifted and Talented

  Adjectives. Synonym: Alma.

  The next week I’m not eating.

  Alma comes back from the snack line and dumps chip bags all over my uneaten lunch. “Please, Macy.”

  She’s not just saying please because she wants me to eat. She’s saying it because she wants me to do the good-bye visit. I get to see Zane one more time. If I want to.

  Me: “NO.”

  Alma opens a bag of chips and shoves one in my mouth. Moves my cheeks to start me chewing. “I can’t imagine not seeing one of my siblings ever again. You can’t even do phone calls? Facebook?”

  “Once he’s adopted his new parents own him. They could move to South America, and I would never know it.”

  I can tell her brain is running several diagnostic checks to see why she can’t figure out a solution. Gifted and talented people like to think they can figure anything out. Ever since middle school she’s been the person the teachers call on in class when the computers freeze.

  “Slip him your handle. Since when has anybody been able to stop Zane from doing what he wants?”

  “Okay.” My voice is flat.

  Alma sighs. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it and tell you everything’s going to be okay because you’d hate me and you know that it isn’t.”

  Me: “And it won’t be ever again. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Alma force-feeds me fruit salad like I’m one of her kids in a high chair. “That’s where you’re wrong. This visit. This is the something you can do. The only thing. Don’t take that away from Zane.” She stands up and picks up her tray. “I gotta go. Getting out of school early today. Family stuff.”

  Good-bye

  Future perfect verb. Hello and Good-bye: A perfect circle I will follow back to you, Zane.

  I meet up with Miss CPS a block away from the house. I told her my visit and my mom’s had to be separate things. My relationship with Zane is gonna be in suspended animation. But her relationship with him is over. She tried to talk to one of her girlfriends about it, all weepy and shit. I took her phone and hung up. She don’t get to tell that story. Backspace. Delete. She’s written her ass out.

  I bring Zane’s favorite dog biscuits. But when I climb into the car, Zane isn’t a dog. He don’t bark or jump up or lick my face.

  I look at Miss CPS. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Miss CPS: “He’s sitting with both feet on the floor, buckled in a seat belt. Ask what is right! Good job, Zane.”

  Zane don’t wag his tail and pant. Zane, or whoever the hell is inhabiting his body—which has grown three inches and at
least two shoe sizes—just sits and lifts up his lips. Can’t quite call what’s happening to his face a smile. My mind is not absorbing reality. Is it Zane?

  We go to Chez McDonald’s. Zane does not crash into the ball cage, hold his breaf until everybody thinks he’s dead, run up the slide and over little kids. He just sits there putting Legos together.

  I get up and start digging through his hair. He don’t bite me. I dig harder.

  Miss CPS: “Macy! What are you doing?”

  Me: “I’m looking for his birfmark.”

  And there it is. Yeah. This is Zane. Which means this is real.

  Miss CPS: “Macy, can you let me explain? You know, Zane is doing so much better now. The Zimm—”

  “Don’t say their name.”

  “He is really blossoming with his adoptive family—”

  “Blossoming. Never thought I’d hear that shit in the same sentence as Zane.”

  Miss CPS laughs. “Yes, well—”

  “Don’t laugh. Ain’t none of this funny.”

  “Sorry. I just want you to know that his life now is—”

  “Don’t go there. Don’t say better.” I hold Zane’s face in my hands. “ZANE!!!”

  The boy in front of me looks in my eyes, but it ain’t Zane looking back.

  I pass him the sweaty dog biscuits. “Tell Zane I love him, okay? Tell him he’ll always be my brother. I didn’t sign no papers.”

  I stand up. Look out the windows and think about how long it’s going to take me to get home on foot.

  Then out the corner of my eye I see him. Zane. Swipe the dog biscuits off the table.

  I ignore Miss CPS and leave.

  But not before I see Zane stuffing the dog biscuits into his pocket. That’s what I want to remember.

  Hydra

  Noun. It’s like in cartoons when you want to get rid of the mouse so you get a cat, then you want to get rid of the cat, so you get a dog. Then you get a elephant.

  George is walking me home. Us, mid-convo:

  “Why can’t we ever hear shit like, cockroaches are going extinct? Or like, there’s only 100 mosquitoes left in the world.”

  George: “Aweemah way aweemah way. In the jungle. The mighty jungle. The lion sleeps tonight!”

  “We’re here.” I kick a flattened soda can. “And he’s here. Manny’s replacement.”

  George cracks his knuckles.

  “Nah. Nah. But thanks. Again.”

  George rests his forehead against my forehead. We stand there like that for a minute. Then he walks off, singing.

  Have

  Verb. What’s all this bullshit about have your cake AND eat it too? What’s the point of cake if you ain’t eating it? Everyone should want cake. Everyone should eat it!

  Nobody else would have noticed it. But I did, the second she sat: Alma eyeballed my French fry.

  I shove the crispy salted perfection at her. “You can have it.”

  Alma: “It’s your last one.” She swats me away. “You have it. I don’t want it.”

  Me wagging the French fry in her face: “You know you want it.”

  Alma: “No. I. Don’t. Want. IT!”

  Me standing up: “Then what do you want?”

  Alma standing up: “I don’t know! What do you want?”

  Me: “For you to have this French fry. For you to eat it!” I launch the French fry at her tray.

  She tosses it back.

  This shit causes a chain reaction all across our lunch table that involves French fries and ketchup packets. I get detention. The kind that don’t involve sub sangwiches.

  Helmet

  Noun. Buckle up, Buttercup. If you’re with me, it’s Ride or Die.

  I do not know why George wears a helmet. Though it probably makes less sense that everybody around here ain’t wearing a helmet. I do not know why George wears a hairy Chewbacca coat. The kids around here think he’s retarded. I know he isn’t any more retarded than Zane. It’s not even that they are “misunderstood.” It’s more like they don’t want you to understand. Because YOU CAN’T.

  I think sometimes that George’s coat wears him and not the other way around. That coat probably has more shit living in it than my mother’s bed. He wears that thing winter spring summer fall. But I picture the things in that coat like friendly little purple creatures that keep George company when he is sad.

  I also know that I don’t want to know.

  I don’t want to know everything about everybody. Ever sung a song for like ever and then found out you were singing it all wrong? And the real words sucked compared to what you thought they were?

  You can’t know everything about a person anyway. You can’t even know everything about yourself. I don’t want to know what you want me to know—what you want me to believe. You imagine me and I’ll imagine you. It’ll be better than anything we could come up with for ourselves.

  Island

  Noun. In Canada there is snow islands. You can see grizzly bears and spawning salmon. You can see tulips blossom in February. You can ski down a mountain. Only you is not invited.

  I’m supposed to be reading The Life of Pi. Miss Black keeps making us read books about islands. I tell her you do not have to be surrounded by water to be on a island. She says, “This is a profound idea.” She asks me to explain. I say hell no. She takes a deep breaf so she does not choke me and lose her teacher license.

  Miss Black tells me that I have a lot of ideas, so I should enjoy reading these types of books. She says, in fact, that I have more ideas than most people. This is supposed to be a moment when she REACHES me.

  I say, “If I have more ideas than most people then what do I need more ideas for? It would almost be greedy.”

  Miss Black sighs. I sigh.

  I tell Miss Black this is called a impasse. She taught me this word, so she should be proud. And leave me the hell alone.

  Miss Black does not EVER leave me the hell alone, though. Every damn day she keeps asking me questions about the books even when I don’t raise my hand, which shrinks my circle so it’s a little knot.

  “Did you see me raise my hand?” I say. “I don’t think so.”

  “In my class, everybody counts so everybody gets called on,” Miss Black says. “Whether they raise their hand or not.”

  You can’t hide in her class. I thought I’d be slick. A student’s best weapon is to ask to use the restroom. The teacher may hate you, but it is a violation of my rights (See A for Always/Never) if they don’t let me go. But Miss Black turned around and told me that I may go after I answer a few questions. All sudden I REALLY have to go. It is a EMERGENCY. My pee-pee dance could have been on Dancing with the Stars.

  Miss Black says okay I can go if I attempt the homework tonight. I say, doing the pee-pee dance, that it depends on the homework. She writes it out on the board. Reeeeeeally slowly and in her best handwriting. I read and agree and run before I make a puddle on the floor.

  As I’ve said, Miss Black is hardcore.

  I like her homework, though. We have to watch a episode of Survivor. On Survivor all the contestants are marooned on a island and have to survive.

  When I get home, I watch a episode. The contestants are marooned and they have to find food, water, and shelter. I want to tell Alma I want to be marooned with her on a island. Mr. Guest’s phone is on the couch. I call her and she don’t answer.

  Mr. Guest walks right in front of the damn TV with his mouth hanging open. He is a permanent fixture here now, like the tires on the front lawn. He’s paying for cable, and with my mother that earns you frequent flyer miles. (See F for Fine Print.) I tell Mr. Guest, “Uh. You ain’t made of glass.”

  I don’t tell him: You’re made of Funions.

  Mr. Guest walks over and picks up his cell. “Neither is you.” He eyeballs me and I draw my hood. Nasty.

  He sweet-times it to the kitchen. I turn away and try to block him out and watch my show. But I can tell just from listening that he’s spilling the Coke he’s pouring and l
eaving it out with the damn cap loose. I turn my head. The refrigerator door is open. So is the silverware drawer.

  My mother’s at the stove, stirring noodles with a fork, scratching against the non-stick pan. She uses too much oil and it spatters everywhere. Once she forgot the bottle of oil on the stove and burned a hole in it. She turns the flame on too high to light up a cigarette and almost burns her eyebrows off. AGAIN.

  “Ma!” I say. “You gonna set yourself on fire!” I go over and grab the smoke and light it up for her. “Let me cook,” I tell her. “Go sit.” At least with them confined to the couch I can watch my show in peace.

  My mother plunks down. She flips the channel. Damn it.

  My mother: “Yo! The Kardashians is on!”

  Me: “Ma! Flip it back! I got to do my homework.” She rolls her eyes, but her cell rings so she lets me win this one.

  I do eenie meenie miney moe to decide which burner to use. (See B for Burner.) The third burner still works good and if you wear a mitt you don’t get electrocuted when you adjust the knobs. I saute the lo mein just right so the noodles are crisp and the broccoli not overcooked.

  Guest: “Damn, that smells good. When’s that shit gonna be ready?”

  I flip him the finger but he just laughs and flips one back. Lets it hang in the air too long. And wiggles it.

  I look away.

  I turn off the stove. Mr. Guest comes over smelling the air around me and I back the hell up. He sticks his finger in the pan and bitches because it’s hot. Genius.

  Guest: “Damn, that’s good, girl. Taste! He holds out his finger.”

  “I think I lost my appetite.” (For the rest of my life.)

  He shrugs and takes the pan to the couch. Sits and passes my mother the pan. She passes him a bong. He starts telling her how he wants to take her away to a island. He sticks his slimy fingers under her bra strap so it slides down her shoulder. Oil stains the couch. DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT. He’s shotgunning smoke into my mother’s mouth. “You want a hit?” he says to me.