She whispers to the girl, some "look at me" blond I don't know, which isn't a surprise, since I don't know, or want to know, my classmates. The girl laughs, no doubt at me, and walks past. She's wearing too much perfume and too smug a look on her store-bought fake-tanned face.
"I'm sorry about what happened," Ms. Chapman says as she motions for me to sit down. "Mr. Lewis will be punished for what he said." I just nod, knowing how easily hurt vanishes.
"Since you didn't choose a book or take my earlier suggestion, I've chosen one for you," she says, turning to the bookcase behind her. She looks for a second, then hands me a beat-up paperback book called Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. "I think you'll enjoy this."
"Thanks," I mutter, taking the book from her, but all the while averting my eyes. I'm a little disappointed; it's a thin book. Every page in a book is a minute outside of my own life.
"You ever think about running cross-country or track?" she asks, then smiles. "I have to tell you that I was impressed with your acceleration. You could letter with some coaching."
I wish I could smile back, but smiling isn't my style. Instead, I just shake my head no.
"If you change your mind, come see me, okay?" she says, but I just nod and walk away. "One more thing, this book Speak is pretty good. It shouldn't put you to sleep."
I frown, a guilty upside-down smile. "Sorry about that."
"Christy, do you want to talk about why you're always so tired in my class?" she asks.
I bite my too-fat bottom lip, filling in a familiar groove, and the pain reassures me. I mumble a nonresponse, then slink away from both her question and my inability to answer it.
2
september 30, senior year
"You look so pretty, Bree."
My niece beams at my remark; her smile so beautiful, despite her crooked teeth. She smiles, not knowing how self-serving my comment was. I wait for a member of my family, all of us piling into Mom's rusted and busted Cavalier, to tell me I look pretty too. But the comment never comes, as usual. They're all dressed in their Sunday finest, Mama decked out in red brighter than any store-Santa would wear, even if there's nothing jolly about this day.
"Get in the car, little girl!" Ryan says sharply to me, after nicely opening the front door for my mother and complimenting her on her dress. It's the first in his long line of false flattery. I don't reply. Instead I look over enviously at my brother Mitchell as he slumps in the backseat, headphones on, music turned up, and already tuning out the world. I hate that Ryan calls me "little girl," but there's nothing I can do about it. He's got Mama's ear, while for me, she's deaf.
Bree squeezes in next to Mitchell, then I sit down next. The springs in the backseat are broken, so no matter how I position myself, I'm not comfortable. Sometimes I think my soul is too big for my skin. Mama's in the seat in front of me, her hacking cough shaking the car. She's so large that she needs the seat pushed back all the way, so my long legs are compacted. It's going to be a painful two-hour trek to visit Robert and celebrate his daughter's birthday.
By the time we get south of Flint, what little conversation we had managed has ended. Mama's napping, which means that Ryan is without someone to flatter, so he stays silent. Bree is deep into one of the books in the American Girl series. My birthday gift to her was an American Girl paper doll cut-out book. She spent the whole morning happily alone cutting out the dolls. I worry sometimes that Bree spends too much time in our room alone, instead of outside playing with friends. She's yet to have a friend over to the house, but then again, neither have I since Daddy died. Anne stays my best friend by staying away from my house and family.
Mitchell's moving his head to the music. If the headphones aren't on, that doesn't stop him, since he sings all the time. It'd be pretty distracting, except he's never home much. He's a year behind me and smarter, but he studies a lot. He's goes to Northern, the science magnet school, works long hours at the Miller Road RFC, and sings in the church choir. When he's home, he's by himself listening to music, singing, and writing in a blue notebook that's almost always in his hand. Mitch and I don't share a lot. Neither one of us like talking about ourselves.
"Breezy, switch places with me, okay?" I ask.
I pick Bree up, sit her on my lap, and then move over. My strength is in my legs, not my arms, and she's getting heavier. She's still a little girl now, but soon she's gonna be a young woman. All I want for Bree is everything I never had growing up, and that's up to me because Mama doesn't have the time. My daddy's sister, Aunt Dee, likes to watch Bree, but she's a flight attendant and is away a lot. Even if Aunt Dee was around more, she's got her hands full. Her son Tommy's fresh from a stint at Genesee County Juvenile Hall and living back at home.
I tap Mitchell on the leg to get his attention. The bass booms from under the headphones and rattles the window he's staring out of. "Mitch, you gonna get me a job at RFC?" I shout.
"You don't want to do that," he says, taking the headphones off. His voice is deep, but always soft. Anne landed a job in a few days, while I've yet to find anything I can do. Selling weed for Ryan at school to the theater and honor society crowds is too risky, even if slinging brought Glen and Anne into my orbit. Anyway, now that I've started, Ryan won't let me stop.
I tap my finger against my head, then say, "Think about it."
"You'd hate it," he replies. "You should do something important, be famous, not work at RFC."
"But I need a job," I say, though without much force. I hate the idea of stinking of fried chicken, like Mitchell does in the few hours we actually see him. I wouldn't mind wearing those fugly brown uniforms, but I'd hate a job where I'd have to interact with strangers all day.
"I know you need money, but I don't think it's a good idea," Mitchell says. He's clueless to my dealing. "You should get a job doing something you'd enjoy, like at a library."
"Thanks anyway, Mitch," I say, taking his rejection as my family's usual reaction to me.
"One day, Christy, I'll manage that store. One day, I'm going to own that store, and all the RFCs in Flint," he says with conviction. I believe that he's not dreaming, he's planning.
"Pucker up, fat boy!" Ryan shouts, which seems his normal volume, since he's used to yelling over his boom car racket. "You don't see me playing that game, know what I'm saying?"
Mama coughs, but she doesn't wake up to stop Ryan's attack. Mitchell and Ryan have never gotten along, which is yet another reason I should try to get closer to Mitchell. Not like that's an easy task. He's always been like me, a lonely person who'd really prefer to be left alone.
"Screw you, Ryan," Mitchell says, taking off his glasses, then putting his headphones back on. There's no use in arguing with Ryan, since Mama always sides with him. He's been her favorite since Daddy died, kind of like I was Daddy's favorite. You can't say anything against Ryan to Mama, no matter what he says or does, so both Mitch and I stopped trying long ago.
"What you looking at, little girl?" Ryan says, his almost black eyes piercing me through the rearview mirror. I bite my bottom lip hard, then melt back in the seat.
"Nothing," I whisper, while my voice silently screams at him. There are one million things I want to say, but I can't bring myself to fight back. Trapped in the car, there's no place to run except back into my own head. I'm safe there: I'd rather live in my head than in my own life.
"Good," Ryan says, then laughs this nasty snicker that chills me down to my spine. The laugh comes with a smirk, and the scent memory of cigar smoke, cheap cologne, and vodka.
"Are Aunt Dee and Cousin Tommy meeting us?" I shout at Mitchell, who nods. He and Tommy used to be friends, but things cooled between them when Tommy got sent away. Mama doesn't want Mitchell hanging with Tommy. It's not so much that she doesn't like Tommy, but she can't stand his mother, Aunt Dee. Mama calls her a Bible-thumper and worse.
"So that wannabe is out, huh?" Ryan says, not that I was talking to him, but he's not a big one on boundaries. "I'm surprised that big mouth snitch isn'
t dead like he deserves."
I bite my bottom lip until it bleeds and try to ignore Ryan's voice by closing my eyes.
"How you doing, Bree?" Ryan asks, but I know he couldn't care less. Bree is a reminder of Robert, and despite his thug friends and ways, Ryan still fears Robert and I don't blame him.
"Are we there yet?" Bree says, all restless. She's wanting me to braid her thick brown hair. I do my best, but to make the braids tight, I need to pull gently on her hair. I can't bring myself to do that, since I know that feeling too well. It's another reason I keep my hair short. I know my short hair, coupled with my lack of curves hidden under baggy clothes, makes me look ugly. Still, I manage a smile at Bree, who looks as beautiful outside as she is inside.
I finish, then put my head against the back of the hard seat, but just before I close my eyes, I notice us driving under a bridge. I wonder if there's someone on that bridge chasing tail lights. I wonder if there's somebody who understands where I've been; somebody as confused about where they're going. I'm just about to doze off to dream when Bree shakes my arm. "There's Daddy's sign!" Bree shouts, then points out the window at the big square yellow road sign that lets us know we're almost there: "Do not pick up hitchhikers. Prison Area."
ninth grade, september
"Robert Lawrence Mattory."
My brother won't look up at the judge, but that's typical. Robert was never one for looking up to anyone, or looking out for anyone but himself. I would think Mama would be crying, but Bree is doing enough of that for all of us. She's seven, so she understands just enough to know to be scared and sad. Seeing her daddy like that, handcuffs on his wrists and chains around his ankles, is probably an image she won't ever forget. I know that I won't.
"Life without parole." Robert doesn't seem fazed at all, and I can't say that I blame him. He'd dropped out of school at fourteen, got into drugs well before then, and was running the streets paved with bad intentions. Mama knew, but pretended like she didn't. She let him go his own way. Now, he's going away for the rest of his life. But thinking about his life and crimes, it seems Robert was living life without parole long before the judge spoke. No job, no skills other than slinging, and no real friends. His daughter could have saved him. He loves her to death, but that didn't stop him from killing a man at a motel in a drug deal gone bad. Her mom, Roxanne, couldn't care for herself, let alone a child, so Breezy's with us. With Mama too busy, Mitchell too young, and Ryan too Ryan, raising Bree will fall on me. I guess I got sentenced today too.
Robert doesn't say anything to the judge, like I see people do on TV shows. He doesn't seem scared at all. He told me during our last visit together that you can't punish a person with life in prison if that person is already dead inside. He's not going to repent or show remorse. As they take Robert away, he never turns around, he never looks back. Mama's still not crying, but she's starting to shake, like she's holding it in. Ryan's right there next to her, attached to her right arm, although his dark eyes stare me down. With Daddy dead, and Robert going away, that makes Ryan the man of the family, except we're no family, and Ryan isn't any kind of man.
3
october 8, senior year
"Isn't he gorgeous? He can student teach me anytime he wants."
"Shut up, Anne!" I say, but I don't mean it. Shut up really means go on.
"Christy, just look at that ass," she adds. We're sitting outside of the school theater eating greasy school lunch, less hungry than usual, since we didn't get high in Anne's car before school or at lunch. We've got a big chemistry exam fifth hour, so we're both staying chemical free. We're sitting waiting for Glen to walk by and make my day. Our eyeballing spot has been interrupted by Mr. McDonald facing away from us and Ms. Chapman walking toward us.
"Don't be so gross," I tell her, but I, too, can't stop staring at Chris McDonald, a bearded twenty-something student teacher in theater who is talking in the hall with a few students.
"He's got an honor-student ass," she says softly. "I mean it is like A plus, you think?"
I ignore her comment, which is difficult. Anne's desperate for affection and attention, but she insists that every boy at Southwestern is too immature, so she's mostly interested in older Romeos like Mr. McDonald. Whenever Anne talks about sex like this, it's mostly a monologue because sex is a subject that leaves me mute.
"Hi, Christy," Ms. Chapman says, stopping in front of me. She's wearing her usual warm-up suit and a small gold chain around her neck. I'd like to ask her about it, but that might lead to her asking me questions. The only question I ask her is "Know anything good to read?" She's never let me down since tenth grade. I notice she's got a book in her hand now.
"Here you go, Christy," Ms. Chapman says, then nods at Anne. In our duo, Anne's used to the spotlight; its weird for the light to shine on me. I take the book from her hand: Lucy Gree-ley's Autobiography of a Face. "I think you'll like it, even though it's nonfiction," she says.
"Thanks," I say, avoiding meeting her eyes. I wonder why she's stalking me. I don't think it's yesterday's weed making me paranoid, but Ms. Chapman is always tracking me down.
"This is your last chance," Ms. Chapman says, then crosses her arms in front of her.
"For what?" I respond. I see from the corner of my eye that Anne is totally gawking at Mr. McDonald. I'm trying to look serious to Ms. Chapman, while Anne's trying to crack me up.
"Join the cross-country team," Ms. Chapman says. "Don't you want to earn your letter?"
I think, but don't say out loud, how I earn good letters every day, mostly As and Bs. I know that's a lot harder work than running through the woods, although just as solitary. Those grades are the only way I'll get out of my house and Flint. I don't study to succeed or read for pleasure; I study to survive and read to escape. "I'm sorry, I just don't have time," I tell her.
"Really?" She's raising a skeptical eyebrow, which is odd because normally I'm a very good liar. I'd earn an A+ if they gave letters for dishonesty. "Do you have a job after school?"
I want to say, "Yes, I'm working by selling weed to actors and honor-society scholars," but that won't get me anywhere but juvy jail. I want to say, "Yes, I'm doing most of the cooking, cleaning, and child caring in my family," but that's none of her business. I can't tell her the truth, so I just say, "I don't have a job, but I just don't have time."
She points to the book in my hand. "If you want a job, you should work at the library."
"That would be nice," I say, but I know I'm dreaming.
"I have a sister who works for the library. Let me give her a call," Ms. Chapman says. But I just shake my head no, not that I wouldn't want a job like that. But if I let her do me this favor, she'll want something from me. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know," she says.
I nod again, and that sends her on her way. I'll apply at the library, if only so she doesn't bother me about it anymore. Ms. Chapman's getting too close, and I'm so nervous around her. I envy-hate her for her beauty and confidence, but am so grateful for her interest in me. Even without weed, I see clearly why I click with her: she's everything I'm not and dream of being.
"I'm all summa come often," Anne says, the second Ms. Chapman heads toward her room. She lowers her large black frames to show off her big made-up eyes if Mr. McDonald should return her stare. She's mock-fanning herself, acting as if she's about to stroke out.
"Just shut up!" I say, but I'm laughing as I speak. I'm laughing at Anne and at the obvious flirting of theater diva Rani Patel, who is talking to Mr. McDonald. Rani's another member of the perfect body-skin-face-hair-life club and sits near the top of my envy-hate list.
"I think I'm going to try out for theater!" Anne says. "Here's your excuse to do it too."
"No way," I tell her yet again. She keeps encouraging me to try out for a play just to get closer to Glen, but I have no thirst for the spotlight. I don't think I'd get a part, except behind the scenes. I'm more like the scenery in theater: tall, flat, thin, and belonging in the background.
/> "I bet he'd make the bed shake," Anne says, more fanning and mock-hyperventilating. "At least he won't be as immature as the rest of these guys. If you don't want him, then—"
"Enough," I say, but this time it's not meant to encourage. I'm serious, but she's not.
"Come on, you wouldn't want to taste Mr. McDonald's Big Mac?" Anne says, to no reaction from me. "Wouldn't you want to let him slip his sausage into—"
"No," I cut her off. Anne thinks my face is getting tight trying not to laugh, but that's not it. I race toward the bathroom. If Ms. Chapman saw this sprint, she'd force me onto her team.
I race to the bathroom, rush past the girls there who are fixing their hair or makeup or getting their fix. I find the one vacant stall and drop to my knees. I taste the salty spit in my mouth, feel the sweat trickle down my brow mixing with the faintest of tears from my eyes, but manage not to vomit—this time. In this locked yet stinky bathroom stall, I feel strangely safe.
I sometimes think I've spent more time in Southwestern's bathrooms than classrooms. It's here that I learned I am not really alone in living two lives. From this stall, I peek through the crack and see my fellow students' transformations. I see the girls, like Anne, who come to school so nice-girl-normal, then change their look, mostly by undressing and showing skin. I hear the girls who act all righteous in class, but drop f-bombs once they're away from teachers' ears. I smell the girls who wear antidrug red ribbons, but get toasted on green on a regular basis, not that they're my customers. I'm not a dealer, I tell myself, I'm just providing a service to a few friends. It's from the bathroom I taste the bitter jealousy, duplicity, and shallowness of girls at my school. The bathroom is a microcosm of Southwestern's two-faced society.
Chasing Tail Lights Page 2
