Love Rewards The Brave
Page 8
I picked him up from school,
at nine years old
he thinks he is too big to hold
my hand, but I take it anyway.
He is my one
and only
reason for fighting
for holding on so long.
I’m not letting go of his hand.
I lean my head against his
because I know a way out.
Smiling
because I was finally giving him
what he always talked about ––
escape.
Now that I saw the truth
of it
I had to help us
out of it.
77.
When we got home
the house was quiet.
Like too quiet to be
good.
We tiptoed to our bedrooms
taking our backpacks off.
Stuffing them full, fast.
Benji looking at me
hopefully
as I handed him the money I’d saved.
Twenty-two dollars
my life savings.
We were going to run to
the train
station.
We would sneak on
and hide out
pretend we were
The Box Car Children.
We would be so far gone by
the time
they went looking.
Free.
From him
forever.
78.
Just as we zipped up our packs,
the quiet house got
loud.
And we heard Mom
scream
yell for him to
stop.
I looked at Benji.
Knowing that if we want to go, we are gonna have to run.
Fast
because if they see us here
like this
we were toast.
“Lou-Lou, let’s just go. Please?” Benji pleaded.
His eyes so full of fear
I wish we had never came back here.
We didn’t need the money, we could make it work.
I gesture shhh.
My fingers tight against my mouth.
Not letting the sounds get out.
Then just like
that,
like a
nine-year-old boy,
an accident,
moves his hand too fast.
Causing a stumble and crash
of the matchbox cars he’s trying to
stash
in
his pack.
He looks at me so wide-eyed and scared.
The look is burned to my soul
because I will always
know
how close we were
to getting
out.
79.
Later that night
after our missed-escape
the moon is full.
I’m with Benji on the bottom bunk
holding his hand
singing him a lullaby
his head resting on my neck.
I tell him, in the words I sing
the things Dad has always said to me,
“Hush now don’t cry
the hurt will go away.”
Because after Dad found us with the twenty-two dollars
and the backpacks packed
he gave us
a reason to never
try to go down that path
again.
I tried to say no
He’s just a little boy- don’t hurt him now.
I tried to say no
We won’t tell, just let us go, now.
I tried to say no
Don’t touch me, I am stronger now.
I tried to say no
You can’t do this, I am a woman now.
But he didn’t hear me because my voice was
Drowned
Out
By
The
Screams
Coming From My Mouth.
So I’m holding broken Benji now,
cradling broken Benji now
because I did this to him.
I tried to leave.
And that is why some days
I feel like
I.
Am.
Breaking.
80.
“Louisa, you okay?” Margot asks.
She’s still here
next to me
my journals sprawled out on the floor.
I’m shaken to my core
as I remember
the things I’ve pretended
weren’t real
real parts of me
my history
for so long.
“Let’s take a breather, okay? How about we go eat something in the kitchen?”
She stands, offering her hand as I get up.
In the kitchen she makes me
a ham and cheese sandwich
on white bread
opens me a can of Coke
scoops a handful of Cheetos
on my plate.
Confused, I ask, “Where did these come from?”
I point to the plate of contraband according to
Ms. F:
HIGH FRUCTOSE ANYTHING.
ENRICHED FLOUR EVERTHING.
NITRATES. CAFFEINE.
PROCESSED CUISINE.
“I brought it.”
Margot smiles as she takes a swig from her can.
“I can’t live without this stuff. It’s my kryptonite.”
“I didn’t expect that. I mean, Ms. Francine is such…”
“A hippie?” she laughs. “Yeah, my sister is the good one, you know, healthy, eating quinoa and kale. I guess I’m still living like I’m in college.”
“You went to college?” I ask.
“Yeah, I graduated last spring after six long years.”
“Doesn’t it usually take four?”
“Well, for some people, sure. For me…a bit more. After high school I backpacked Europe for a while, then started community college, then decided it wasn’t what I wanted... I bounced between a few places before I settled down with a program I was excited about.”
“And what was that?” I ask, licking my cheesy fingers.
“Creative Writing.”
“So, you’re a writer?” I ask.
“Well, I get paid to manage the record store, but my real passion is poetry. Slam poetry. Have you ever heard of that?”
“No.”
“That’s why I was so moved by your writing, Louisa, it’s so raw–– that’s what slam poets do, we transform words into a living, breathing thing. We share stories through spoken word.”
“So, like, you read it out loud?”
“It is more of a performance, actually. I memorize a piece and then use my voice to interpret the words for the audience.”
“You do that? Get on stage or something in front of people and tell them your secrets?” I ask.
That seems insane.
So foreign.
That isn’t what secrets are for.
Secrets are for burying deep down
never say a sound.
But to speak them?
Share them?
Give them away?
“Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Margot slides her laptop
over the kitchen table
and we sit there for the next two hours
watching
YouTube videos
of people just like Margot
sharing their soul
with the world.
81.
“It sounds like you had a nice time with Margot this afternoon.”
Ms. Francine folds laundry on the couch.
I’m waiting for Jess’s mom to come
pick me up
so we can go out
to the mall.
Christma
s shopping
and food court.
Dinner
and a movie.
Ms. Francine and Margot had a
hallway conference when she
got home from work.
I’m sure it involved some version
of Margot saying this
poor girl needs to get out of the house.
After my
midmorningmeltdown
and all.
I guess I’m glad Ms. F pushed me
to call
Jess.
If I were to choose
I’d have sat on my bed for the rest of
the night
biting my nails.
“Yeah, it was good. I don’t know why she spent her day hanging out with me. I mean, unless you told her she had to.”
“I didn’t tell her to do anything. Maybe she just likes your company. Maybe more people do than you realize.”
I sit in the chair, watching her fold my T-shirt.
“Yeah, well I showed her one of my old journals. She probably thinks I’m some sort of freak now.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Louisa.”
“Why’s that, Ms. F?”
“Oh, I think we are all pretty clear on you being a freak already.” She laughs and throws my shirt at me.
I laugh, too, in spite of myself.
Despite myself.
“I’m just teasing, Louisa. No one thinks you’re a freak. I think we just care about you and it hurts to see you hurt. Hurting.”
She sits down on the couch, sorting socks.
Black with black.
White with white.
The lone gray sock
is
matchless.
“I know you have a fun night planned with Jess, and I’m so thankful you have her, but I want you to know, Louisa, you have me too.” Her words soft.
Soft enough for me
to know
it’s real.
82.
We wander around
the tacky jewelry store.
Jess desperate for feather earrings
holding every pair up
waiting for my approval.
I shake my head yes
or I say, “Um, no way.”
She goes with the neon green
feathers
the ones I thought looked best against
her barely there
hair.
We walk toward the food court
dodging the girls from
school who think they’re
cooler than us because they
wear letterman’s jackets of the guys they screw.
Jess says, “Thanks for picking those earrings out. I never know what looks right.”
“What are you talking about, Jess? You have a very distinct look.”
I scan her up and down
a mini skirt and combat boots
lacy tights
ripped on purpose
leg warmers
are the only practical things
wears.
“You know what I mean, Louisa. I just copy what I see someone else wearing, in a magazine or whatever. You, like, you know, invent it.”
I laugh, out loud.
“Whatever, Louisa, you don’t get it.”
“Get what?” I’m scared I’ve pissed her off.
“That you’re cool. Okay? You have a whole thing going on, the damaged-girl-with-issues edge and you’re super hot, I mean, I look like a dork next to you.”
We stand in line at the gyro stand
waiting to order
falafel and feta.
“That’s insane. Guys line up to take you out. I mean, before Markus it was always someone.”
“You have the guys, Louisa, you just act like you’re better than them and blow off any guy within a fifty-foot radius.”
“Is that what you think that? That I somehow think I’m better than them? You have no clue, Jess. No clue.”
We order our food
holding our trays in front of us
a barrier suddenly formed
between us.
83.
We sit down at a table
built for two and
she brings it up again.
“What is it then? Markus said he saw you in the cafeteria the
other day and Jack, that senior who everyone thinks is totally gorgeous, you know the one who’s always playing his guitar outside?”
I nod, knowing who she’s talking about.
“Well, I guess he walked up to where you were sitting, totally checking you out, and said something. And instead of answering you picked up your backpack and left the cafeteria. Like, completely ignoring him.”
I don’t even remember this
taking place.
Apparently I’m
better than I
thought at
blocking out
the traumatizing
paralyzing
things
in my day-to-day life.
“Why did you do that, Louisa? Why wouldn’t you just talk to him?”
How do you tell
your
one and only
friend
the truth about your past?
What happens if it
freaks her out
or shuts her down?
What then?
It isn’t worth the risk
of losing
her.
“Jess, whatever, he was being a total creep, that’s why I walked away. Okay? Markus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
And that is enough.
For her, for now.
“Besides, Jess, weren’t we talking about how cool I am?” I ask.
Glowing outwardly
freezing inwardly.
I pick up my gyro
thankful to be distracted
by food
as I think about
the things Jess
just said.
84.
The knock on my bedroom door
wakes me up, I look at the clock.
Fuck.
I’m totally late.
Monday morning came fast
after last night with Jess
at the mall, the dinner and movie that followed.
“Louisa, got to get a move on,” Ms. F says. “You need to leave in about thirty minutes. Margot can drive you to school on her way back to her house.”
Brush teeth.
Dress fast.
Bagel in hand.
I jump in Margot’s car
thankful the heat’s
cranked up
as we pull out of the
frosty driveway.
“So, Louisa, one more week till Christmas break, right?” Margot asks, through her yawn, as she pulls into a coffee stand.
Two extra-hot
extra-whip-extra-shot
caramel lattes.
God, how is she so perfect?
“Yep,” I say, taking the coffee from her. “Thanks for the latte.”
“Oh, of course. But, so, I wanted to ask you, with Christmas break coming up and all, do you want a job?”
I don’t know what to say
so I do what I do best:
nothing at all.
“It would be a job at the record store. We need some extra people to work with the holiday rush and there was this girl who just flaked out, and anyways, I just thought you might like it?”
I bite my lip
self-consciously
aware of
saying yes too fast
or too slow.
“I already talked to my sister, and she thinks it would be great for you. What do you say?”
“You think I can do it? I mean, I’ve never had a job before.”
I want to confess
that I’m terrified
I’ll make a mess
of it.
But that I want to
try.
“You have to start somewhere. And this is better than working at a pretzel stand in the mall.”
I laugh.
“And the dress code at the record store is the best part. Come as you are.”
Come as you are.
I can do that.
God knows
I can’t do much
else.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay, yes?” she asks.
“Okay, yes.”
She drops me off at school
and I can’t
help but
think maybe I woke
up late
and got a ride from her
today
for a reason.
I just hope
I don’t
fuck
it
up.
85.
The clock is moving so slowly
I want to scream
at Terry.
I have been thinking
it over the past few days.
Yes, she brought the journals to me.
Yes, she woke up forgotten memories.
Yes, she says she is trying to help,
but I have a bunch of questions now
And I want to
Call
Her
Out
On A Few Of Them.
“Louisa, you look like a ball of nerves right now. Do you want to talk about bringing your journals home? Did you get a chance to look at them?”