"You okay?" I hear Anne's voice after a while, her concern coming through the heavily graffitied stall door. "I'm sorry if it was something I said."
"I'm fine," I say just as the bell rings. She's my best friend. Forgiving her is easy and essential. I wish I could be alone in the world, but my soul demands at least one connected life.
"Christy, I know that kind of talk upsets you. Listen, Speedy, I'm really sorry," she says, but I don't respond. Anne talks a lot about sex, but not from any experience. She always says lots of boys are interested, but none of them are interesting. "You know I like to tease."
Teasing, me with her mouth and boys with her body, is one of her main things. "It's just that," I start, then swallow it back. "Never mind."
"Did I embarrass you or what?" she asks, the regret deep in her voice.
"No, you know me," I say through the barrier.
"I try, but you never make that easy, Speedy," Anne says, then laughs.
"Is it safe?" I ask, before coming from behind the green door.
"All clear," Anne says. I take a deep breath, clean up, and emerge. "You okay?"
I walk over to the sink and run cold water over my face. I look into the mirror and that cold vision is more sobering, yet satisfying. I know the primary purpose I serve at Southwestern. I allow other girls, like Anne, to feel good about themselves, since they're all prettier than I am. I know that somewhere behind my wide green eyes, my short, dyed-red hair, and my makeup-free face is some beauty, but the ugliness of my life rots me from inside.
"I'm sorry," Anne repeats, then lightly pats my shoulder, but even her soft touch stings.
She smiles, her perfectly corrected white teeth shine, while I hide my crooked ones with a closed-mouth grin of my own. "You can have Mr. McDonald if you want," I tell her.
"I don't think so," Anne says, pulling out her makeup kit and taking off her black rims. She offers makeup to me. I decline, since that's like putting pretty windows on an ugly house.
"So, you were kidding," I say, still trying to catch my breath.
"Totally," she says, then adds some mascara. She's trying to make her natural eyes look bigger, doing to the ovals on her face what her Wonderbra does to the ones on her chest. "It's creepy to imagine guys Mr. McDonald's age doing it with teenage girls, don't you think?"
"I guess," I say, wishing my eyes were smaller like Anne's beautiful browns. I wish my eyes had less capacity for crying, which I know I do far too much. Anne's words trigger tears, and I'm powerless to hold them back any longer.
"What's wrong with you today, Christy?" Anne says, looking at me via the mirror.
"I don't want to talk about it," I say, and Anne knows when I say "it" I mean sex.
"Is it because you're still a virgin?" Anne whispers even though the bathroom is empty.
It's a conversation we always start, but never finish. "Are you?" I shoot back as straight as the truth is crooked. I hear the second bell ring. It is a much louder and sadder sound than that of Anne's footsteps walking away. Sometimes I wonder why she's friends with me at all.
sophomore year, october
"Can I sit here?"
I look up from the cafeteria table to tiny Anne Williams standing over me, although I'm almost as tall sitting down as she is standing. "What?" I reply, stunned to attention.
"You want some fries?" she says, sitting her tray, then herself, down across from me.
"No," I say, looking at my tray, the table, anything but Anne's moving mouth. The incident in Ms. Chapman's class last week drew attention to me, so I'm trying to blend back into the background, where I belong.
"You're not missing anything." She holds one of the fries up, smells it, and then tosses it back on the plate. "It's a ten-ton salt-and-fat bomb."
Looking closely at Anne, it looks like she speaks from experience. While she's not obese like my mom or even overweight like Mitchell, she's not going to get an offer from Ms. Chapman to run track. With her penchant for tight clothes and revealing tops, however, she will have three years' experience running hall gauntlets of probing fingers, filthy mouths, and leering eyes.
"How's your book?" I ask, knowing nothing else to ask, other than "Why are you sitting with me?" Still, I let her sit with me, hoping not to relive middle school, where I was a black hole of loneliness.
"It's okay," she says, then shrugs her shoulders before starting to eat her green salad. I guess that's my cue to say something, but unlike Glen, I don't know how to do dialogue.
She takes a couple of bites, while I try, and fail, to think of something to say to her. "So, what's the deal with Seth Lewis?" she finally asks, once again offering me her fries.
"He's an asshole," I say in between bites.
"Maybe we need to perform rectumectomy surgery and get him removed from our class."
"A what?" I'm trying not to stare at her big black glasses or tight gray T-shirt with the word ARMY written across the front. I've noticed she usually wears T-shirts with writing across the front.
"Nothing, just joking," she says, then shrugs before forcing out a smile.
"Sounds like a painful operation," I finally say, after more embarrassed silence.
Anne reaches into her purse, then looks around the crowded cafeteria, but everyone is indifferent to us. She flashes some cash, then palms it back. "Yougot any painkillers?"
I hide my eyes, shake my head, and then speak softly. "What do you mean?"
"I heard you can hook me up with weed, is that right?" Anne says in a whisper, which I can barely hear as the noise grows louder as the lunch period draws to a close.
"You heard wrong," I say, knowing now that she didn't come to be my friend, but to use me.
She puts the money back in her purse, then frowns. "That's not what Glen said."
Hearing his name causes a chemical reaction to race through my half-dead body.
"After school on the bridge," I finally tell her as I start to rise from the table.
"What bridge?" she says, looking stupid and lost despite her overstuffed backpack.
"North of the school, the one that goes over the expressway. "I tell her the location of my home away from home, wondering if I've made a mistake trusting her even this much.
"Hey, Christy, I'm cool," she says, sensing my stress. "Maybe we could hang out too."
"Maybe, "Isay, staring at the table and nervously picking at the edge of my food tray.
"If Glen doesn't have play practice, maybe he'll join us," she says. I know I'm not totally invisible, since one of my deepest secrets—my Glen crush—is painfully evident to Anne. If she has Glen's attention, then I'll let her into my life. Or at least the parts of it that I'm willing to share.
4
october 24, senior year
"I got a job shelving books at the public library."
"That's nice," Bree says. It's kind of sad that the only person in the house to tell the news to is just ten years old. Sadder, she's probably the only one who cares. Mitchell's pulling his six-hour after-school KFC shifts, while Mama is working one of her jobs. They've got enough problems of their own, and no reason to think another family member working for minimum wage is cause for celebration. Ryan is out doing whatever he does, but his money never comes back into the house. I guess it all goes into his ride or he blows it partying with his low-life get-high friends.
"But it means I'll be late getting home from school," I almost whisper, trying to break the news to her gently. We're sitting on the floor between our beds. The carpet is mildewed, but anything's better than sitting on my hard bed. "I won't be here when you get home every day."
"You're never here!" She's crying now, a totally justified reaction to my growing selfishness. Ever since Robert went to Jackson, I've been Bree's stand-in parent, but it's so hard. It's too much to ask me to cook, clean, study, work, and try to protect her.
"Don't worry, Breezy," I say, reaching across to wipe away her tears. Even when she cries, she looks cute. Sadly, that doesn't work for me.
"We'll still have lots of time together."
"Really?" She pushes the paper-doll book over to me, then scissors. I guess I should be studying, or doing something grownup, but spending time with Bree lets me feel like I'm eight again. I've tried to tell Aunt Dee not to take her from me even for one night, but that's selfish. I know she can give Bree things that I can't. Bree deserves a much better role model than me.
"Sure, Breezy, I'll be here as much as I can," I say, hating to lie to the child. Truth is, I can't stand being at home, but I have no choice. With her father in prison, and her mother in no condition to care for Bree, it's up to me to do the best that I can. I'll do my best to make her feel safe and loved, two more things I've not felt for almost ten years.
I cut out a few dolls, pass the scissors back over to her, and then open up my chemistry book to try to study for a little while. Anne's working tonight, so I'm trapped in this house. I'll be alone once Breezy heads off to church. I never know when Ryan will crawl up from his cave.
The light in our room isn't good, with just one lone exposed bulb overhead. The fixture fell off last time I replaced the bulb, and we haven't bought a new one. Better there's little light, since this room, like most of the house, isn't much to see. There's a small desk, but it's better suited for Breezy than me. It used to be in Robert's room, so it's all scratched up. He used to sit at that desk for hours, drawing pictures of guns, cars, and, what I realize now were gang signs. He didn't get his real education sitting at a desk but, like lots of Flint kids, on the street.
Our room is the smallest in the house, and it's right next to the bathroom. Mama's room is at the end of the hallway. It smells like smoke even with the door closed, which it almost always is. The wood on the door to her room is splintered. One time, right after Daddy died, she slapped Robert. He chased her into her room, screaming at her the entire time. Mama might be the head of the family, but she's never been in charge. She must have locked the door, but he tried to kick it in: I wonder if he wanted in to kill her or apologize. I wonder if he even knew.
Mitchell's room is next to Mama's. He shared a room with Ryan before Robert moved out. Ryan then took over Robert's room in the basement. Unlike our room and Ryan's sty, Mitchell's room is always neat. He's got his clothes in a beat-up dresser, but at least his threads aren't in cardboard boxes like mine. There's a desk in his room, which he uses all the time, I guess. Whenever Mitch isn't working, he's in his room with the door closed. Sometimes you can hear him loudly singing; other times there's nothing but the soft sound of a pencil working out a math problem.
Mitchell's good with math and science; he could probably be a doctor like Anne will be, but for poor kids in Flint like him, I think that's another dream. Fact is, while lots of poor folks in Flint get into hospitals, it's usually as victims, not as doctors. The walls of Mitchell's room are covered with taped-up posters of Eminem that he's ripped out of magazines. He probably sits at the desk every afternoon, doing his homework, planning to be better than he is. He probably lies in his bed every night, looking at those posters, dreaming of a life and a better place than this.
Ryan's room is down in the damp basement, in what used to be a storage room. The walls are cracked, and it still stinks from when it flooded a few years ago, even though we ripped up all of the carpet. That stinky carpet is in a pile in the backyard, along with the other junk from our lives we can't get rid of for some reason. Ryan throws his dirty clothes for me to wash in a basket in front of his door because I can't bring myself to go in there without gagging. He doesn't spend much time at home anymore, although even one second is too much by my clock.
I hear the front door open, and even from the distance, there's a distinctive sour smell attacking my senses. His big always-new shoes are loud on the creaky, warped wood floors.
"Where's some dinner?" I hear Ryan shout, and I feel the acid in my stomach churn.
I motion to Bree to be quiet, but I know he'll find us. Our closed door is always open to him. Even a chair leaned against the knob can't keep him out.
"I need some food or shit!" Ryan shouts, banging loudly on the door. There's no lock, and the door swings open. His odor overwhelms me; I don't know how he expects me to cook when I'm feeling sick to my stomach. He's standing over me, blocking out the light.
"Hello, Uncle Ryan!" Bree squeals in delight, but he ignores her.
"Fix me something to eat!" Ryan shouts back at me, slams the door, then walks away.
"I don't like it when Uncle Ryan yells," Bree says, then sounds like she's going to cry. I remember how I hated when Mama and Daddy would yell at each other. I can't imagine the hell Bree went through when she lived in that drug den trailer with her mom before we took her in. Anything I can do to protect Bree, I will. I think Aunt Dee feels the same: both of us have written off my generation, except maybe Mitchell, and realize Bree is the only possible hope.
"I don't like it either," I tell Bree with the most gentle expression I can manage.
"I'm gonna tell Grammy on him," Bree says, now in a fullblown pout.
"Don't bother Grammy. She's got enough to worry about." I tell her a lie, wanting to protect her from the true facts of her own life. For there is no telling Mama anything bad about Ryan. It's not that she doesn't believe it; she doesn't even hear it. Instead, she just hears how Ryan is when she's around. Then, he's kind, loving, caring, and does anything for her she asks. But mostly what Mama does best is close her eyes, ears, and soul to the truth. We've taken a vow of silence and wish it away, like all this was happening to some TV family rather than to us.
"Maybe your rich friend could give us some caviar or some shit," Ryan slurs, sticking his body back in the door. He's barely able to stand, let alone censor himself in front of Bree. I get up to leave the room, but he blocks the door with his massive frame.
"I need to go," I mutter to Bree, then head toward the door. He steps back, but makes sure to brush up against me as I escape toward the kitchen.
"She's rich and hot," Ryan says, then laughs. "She's not an ugly poor bitch, like you."
As I race toward the kitchen, I'm upset about so many things that it's like twenty radios are playing in my head at the same time. Once I'm in the kitchen, I pick up a knife and like the dead weight of it in my hand. Even as Ryan's voice chills the air, my fingers feel warm against the cold steel. I start chopping carrots, and the force of the blade helps take my mind off my mind.
Next, I open the fridge to see if there's any meat. Mostly there's leftovers from Mama's job at Harvest Crest Retirement Community or whatever Mitchell brings home from RFC. I find a pack of chicken, which I've got to use today before it goes bad. As the knife slices through the chicken, I'm thinking about the motion, the sound and the texture of flesh and blood. I'm thinking how easy it would be to shut off the noise in my head by slitting my skinny wrists.
"You got some cash for me," Ryan says, staggering behind me, his scent burning the membranes in my nose. I grip the knife tighter, driving my teeth into my bottom lip.
"It's in my room," I say, as he wafts by me. Even with the other smells in our rank old rented house, his scent stands out among them all. I can smell him even in my sleep.
"I'll get it later tonight," Ryan says, then takes a carrot from me. He chews it loudly, swallows, and speaks through his smirk. "It's Wednesday night, you know what I'm saying."
I don't say anything, so finally he walks away. Aunt Dee comes over most Wednesday nights to take Bree to services at the Bristol Road Church of Christ, then Bree stays overnight at her Grand Blanc condo.
"Church night," Ryan shouts from across the room. "Everybody gets down on their knees!"
I don't say anything; instead, I watch the blood from the chicken ooze onto the cutting board. I can't go to church anymore; every time I'm in church it reminds me of Daddy's funeral. Like so many of my memories, it won't leave me and I can't seem to let it go. Yet, even if I could go, I know better than to believe the words any minister speaks. In church, I would
hear about how Jesus teaches us to forgive each other, but Jesus never met Ryan.
fifth grade, october
"Let us pray."
I bow my head to pray. I do it to hide my tears, and so for one second I can stop looking at Daddy. Or what used to be Daddy. That lifeless person lying in the coffin isn't my father.
I'm trying to act tough and older than my years, but the tears and the way I'm clutching onto Hershey Bear, a small teddy bear that Daddy got me one Christmas, reveals the true me.
The only other funeral I've attended was four years ago: my grandmother on my mom's side. It was down in Ohio, where her people are from and most still are. Grandmother Weathers died of cancer; I don't even know what kind, but it was enough to take about half her weight and all of her hair. Grandmother Weathers never had much money, like most folks in my family. Husbands and boyfriends were all introduced as uncle, but none ever stayed too long. About the only thing that ever mattered to her was herself Mama said when she was growing up, there wasn't enough money for school supplies, for new clothes, or sometimes even for the rent, but Grandmother Weathers always found money for the beauty parlor to get her hair done and talk with friends about the next uncle-to-be. Her clothes might be old and out of style, but her hair never was. Mama left home at sixteen, and she said Grandmother barely noticed.
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