After I dry off, I throw an old yellow cloth robe on over my pajamas. I'll need to pull out another blanket, since I noticed ice inside the window even before sunset, and with the small cracks in the window and the tears in my pajamas, it's going to be a long, cold night. I'll bring Bree into the bedroom with me, close the door behind me, and wait for morning.
"Hey, Christy," I hear Mitchell shout from his room. He must have sneaked in while I was in the shower. He sounds bone tired. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," I say, standing next to the door, waiting for an invite inside that doesn't come.
"How did you get through your junior year? It's so hard," he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose, then looking down at the math book in front of him like it was a map to buried treasure.
"I don't remember," I say, as drops of water from my wet hair drip onto my shoulders. I shiver at the sensation and at the thought of telling Mitchell more lies. He doesn't want the truth; he needs a reason to believe. "You're smart, Mitch. You'll do fine, probably better than I did."
He looks up, adds a smile to his face, and takes a deep breath. "I doubt that. You—"
"What's busting you?" I ask quickly, turning the attention away from me.
"All of it, that's the problem," he says, then coughs. His voice is heavy from too little sleep and not enough dreams. Ryan kicked away Mitch's dreams, leaving him nothing except planning and praying.
"If I can make it, then . . . ," I start, then my voice fades away, since surviving isn't really success. But if Mitchell can avoid becoming another casualty and make it out of Flint to get to college, then he has a chance, although he doesn't need honors math to figure the odds are long.
"Thanks, Christy," he says, then goes back to work. The walls of his room are empty now. The Eminem posters were ripped down the day after Ryan ripped open Mitchell's secret life. But in some way, I think, that's a blessing to have the burden of unreachable dreams disappear.
I walk on, throwing Bree's clothes in the dryer while I finish my English homework at the kitchen table. In the other room, I hear Mama's snoring broken up by her hacking cough over the soundtrack of reality TV contributing to the decline of Western civilization. A full ashtray and six empty beer cans form a circle around her. In English we're studying words that have two meanings depending on how they are used. We're supposed to come up with illustrations from our literature textbook, but my example is from my life. I'll use the word mother because in my house "mother" is just a noun; it's never been a verb.
first grade, christmas
"Santa?"
I whisper the words as I open my bedroom door on Christmas morning. But when I walk into the main room, I see there's still no tree, no presents, nothing. I woke up early, silently hoping during the night that Santa had visited our house. But with tears in my eyes, I see that everything on TV is a lie. I walk into the kitchen. Mama's smoking, sipping coffee, eating oatmeal, and not saying a word. I grab a bowl, take some oatmeal, and go back toward my room.
As I walk through the living room, I look at the TV. For once it's not on, so the dark dusty screen is like a mirror. I see my reflection in the glass surrounded by the empty room. I look down at my breakfast. A deep anger overtakes me as I hurl the oatmeal at the TV screen.
"What the hell, "I hear Mama shout from the other room. I set the now empty bowl on top of the TV and retreat into a corner, but there's no place to hide. She jerks my right arm, which seems no bigger than one of her fingers, and pulls me toward her. I don't fight back, instead I let her drag me across the floor to her chair. I'm over her knee by instinct and I barely even cry as she turns my skin black and blue. She beats me so quickly she doesn't take time to pull down my pajama bottoms, or maybe she wants to avoid the loud sound of skin on skin.
I crawl off her after the last smack; I lost count at ten. She storms into the kitchen, while I creep into the corner and curl up on my side against the heating vent, pressing up against the metal grating, which bites into my skin. I'm shivering from cold and shaking with tears. She tosses a roll of paper towels at me. I look at the white oatmeal dripping down on the TV screen.
"I'm sorry, Mama," I lie to her as she towers over me.
"You clean that up," she says. "Or I'll make you lick it off the floor, you hear?"
I nod, eyes to the ground, avoiding her cold, angry look that only I seem to inspire. She coughs loudly, then walks into the kitchen, leaving me alone on Christmas morning. Daddy's still sleeping, so are Mitchell and Ryan, while Robert never came home last night. Christmas or not, it's just another morning at the Mallorys on Stone Street.
I take the paper towels and wipe away the mess. Every day after school I had come home and watched TV for a couple of hours. Every day for months I'd seen the Christmas commercials with all these people smiling, dancing, and singing songs. The TV showed me all these pictures of happy families together and presents around the tree. But those faces, feelings, and presents are missing in our house. I scoop the oatmeal off the screen, then go into the bathroom to throw it away, so I don't have to face Mama again.
"Good morning, my most beautiful one!" I hear my father shout out as he enters the bathroom. I hug him, accept a kiss on the forehead, and savor the feeling of his rough beard against my skin. I throw the mess away and then wait outside while he finishes in the bathroom.
When he steps out, right away he knows that something's wrong. My eyes can't lie, and since Daddy's home so little, I tend to stare at him whenever I can. "What's the matter?"
"Mama's mad at me,"I tell him.
"Well, she's mad at me then too," he says, then winks. He reaches out his hand and I take it. His hand is wrinkled and scarred, with twisted fingers, but he's still strong.
"Daddy, where's Santa?" I say, all innocent, but I know better. Still, I just want desperately to believe.
He yawns, then bends down next to me. "Santa must have missed us this year, again."
I don't say anything; instead I lean into Daddy. Time with him is my real present. He hugs me back, then touches the top of my head. He fingers my long, dirt-brown hair and smiles. No matter that he's missing a few teeth, it's still the biggest and brightest smile I've ever seen.
"If he didn't come to us, we'll go see him," Daddy whispers with his hoarse voice.
"Really?" I reply, as he gently wipes the tears running down my cheeks.
"Go get your coat," Daddy says, as he walks into the kitchen. I try to be quiet so as not to wake Ryan or Mitchell, although there's little quiet as I hear Mama and Daddy yelling.
I dress quickly, grab my coat, and race for the door, but Daddy is still in the kitchen with Mama. After a few minutes, Daddy meets me at the door. We go outside and climb into his car. It's a cold morning and the old car strains to start, coughing like Mama. He puts me on his lap, my hands on the wheel, his resting on top, and we steer the car together on the snow-covered streets. "Let'sgo chasing the tail lights of Santa's sleigh," Daddy says, then softly kisses the top of my head. The kiss moves down my long braided hair and touches my neck.
"Honey, next Christmas, things will be better. I'll be working again," Daddy says.
"It's okay," I tell him, my small hands turning the wheel as my mouth turns out lies.
"It's not all right," he says. "I'mgoing to do something about it."
I sit on his lap as we drive the streets, which are mostly empty. The party stores, drugstores, and bars that line Dort Highway are all closed. With my help, Daddy turns the car into the parking lot of a Mobil gas station, which seems to be open. He leaves the car running, although the heater barely works, and goes into the store. After a few minutes he returns with a big Hershey's chocolate bar and a small stuffed chocolate-colored bear.
"Santa wanted you to have this," Daddy says, breaking the candy in two pieces and giving me the larger one. Then he hands me the small stuffed bear. "And your Daddy wants you to have this. He's like you: tiny, beautiful, and sweet. Let's call him Hershey."
My
face is too small to hold my smile. I know that Santa isn't real; but this moment is.
14
december 30, senior year
"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
Anne shrugs, then coughs way too loudly, which slowly dissolves into her even louder laugh, both of which I can barely hear over the blasting music. "I'm sick."
"Sick?" I ask as I trade the cold of my house for the warm comfort of the PT Cruiser.
"Sick and tired of my boss," Anne responds, then leaves some tire rubber in front of my house, adding to the overall noise level of a Stone Street Saturday night.
"What now?" I hide a sigh, wondering when Anne is going to either quit her job or at least quit complaining. Sometimes I wish she'd be more like me and suffer in silence.
"Tonight, I get into work, and he says he needs to talk to me alone," Anne says, teeth clenched and tone caustic. "He takes me to his office, tells me to sit down, then shuts the door."
"What did he want?"
"He said he wanted new employees to wear name tags."
"And?"
"And he leans over and presses this name tag on my shirt," Anne says, sounding like she wants to throw up. "I don't think I need to tell you where he put his hand, do I?"
"Disgusting."
"He did it really quick, but it seemed like forever," Anne says. "I can still feel it."
I let her confession dangle. I keep wondering when Anne will stand up to her boss. I can't bring myself to ask her. If she reflects the question back at me, then I'd be blind as well as mute. I shift in my seat, chew on my bottom lip, and change direction. "Where we going?"
"Chillers, you know it?" she asks, but she knows the answer, since I rarely go anywhere, except with her. And of all the places I would go, Chillers, a teen dance club about a half hour away in Lapeer would be last on my list. But since Anne's only seventeen, it's our only choice.
We drive down 1-69, faster than a burning joint, not that we have one. Anne's agitated, since I didn't have any weed, and she couldn't stop at home to get some. We'll have to move our feet without shuffling our brain cells. I don't think Anne knows how much I hate dancing and hate being in crowds. The only thing I hate more is what she saved me from: Saturday night home alone until Ryan stumbles in, his smell my personal alarm clock. Anne spends most of the drive talking about Tommy, whom she's now dating. Good thing she tells me details; Tommy's not much of a talker. We find a place to park, but Anne's PT Cruiser sticks out in the lot, which looks like an SUV dealership. We walk past cars with music booming out of them, and past groups that have gathered in the lot. We walk by two beefy security guards, who let me pass without a look, but I hear a murmur when Anne passes by. New hair and holes regardless, I'm expecting the same disinterest in me inside.
The music smashes into us the second we enter, not even the churning bodies absorbing the loud techno sound. The beat's like a drill, as Anne heads quickly toward the crowded dance floor after we drop our coats. I follow her, but then look straight at the floor in front of me as I push myself into the swirling mass.
"Where's the dress?" Anne asks, pointing at my oversize CMU hooded sweatshirt that Mitchell got me for Christmas. It's nice to see somebody thinks I might have a life after Flint. I bought him a new blue notebook to show him he's got the right to dream again.
"What dress?" I shout back at Anne. I haven't a clue how people hook up at places like this, since they can't hear each other, but maybe the only talk that matters here is body language.
"The dress from the Victoria's Secret in Lansing?"
I smile, knowing it will go unseen in the strobe-lit darkness. "I'm saving it for Glen."
"Why bother?" Anne says, then sighs loudly.
"What do you mean?" I shout back, the waves of sounds make every word quiver.
She shrugs her shoulders then leans into me. "It's not like you're going to show him."
"I will, I'm just waiting for—"
"Carpe diem, Speedy," Anne says, but I deflect her words. I turn away from her and pull the hood up over my head.
"Listen, you gotta do this thing," she shouts, then drives her point home by tightly clutching my wrist like she's looking for my pulse.
"I know," I respond, but she tightens rather than loosens her grip. To the onlookers we're holding hands; to me, she's holding my barely dancing feet to the fire I feel for Glen.
"Then do it at Rani's party tomorrow," Anne shouts louder and grabs even tighter still.
Anne's a friend, but I don't like anybody touching me like that. "Let go!"
"See how easy it is to ask for what you want." Anne laughs, and lets my hand fall free. She takes her free hand to flip her hair. "You just gotta ask."
"Maybe," I mumble. Anne's still in her work clothes, although she's let her hair down, unbuttoned one button too many on her white shirt, and added eyeliner blacker than her pants. Looking around the room, I see the too pretty, too tanned girls in their short, sexy dresses, and I know that Anne is right. Glen is never going to ask me; I need to take the first step. Even changing my look didn't change his reaction to me. Why did I think seven piercings would change five years of Glen only showing an interest in me as a friend or a supplier of weed? Since I know the end result will be rejection, there's no use delaying the inevitable anymore.
"Come on," Anne says, pointing deeper into the crowded dance floor. The song's changed, but the smashing beat, the crushing volume, and the booming bass rumble like an earthquake. While the room shakes, I won't. "Look, like you said: 'let go!'"
"What do you mean?" I shout, even as the words let go form a groove in my brain.
Anne moves us near the boys' bathroom, which gives her plenty to look at, since talking is out of the question under the techno cloud. I finally take a risk and do what I've never done before. I let go.
"That's it," Anne shouts, laughing with me not at me, as I let the rhythm move me. She's kicked off her shoes; I've kicked off the chains, if only for one night. Every time a new song comes on, I hear loud cries of "That's my song!" from a group of four blond girls on the other side of us. They're dancing with each other, but trying to impress a group of boys who seem su-perglued to the wall. Each of them has one leg up behind them, suburban flamingos.
Five songs later I'm dancing strong, but Anne needs to catch her breath. I know that Ms. Chapman was right: there's a finely tuned athlete buried in this damaged body. I'm wishing I had long hair again so I could shake my head and feel it on my shoulders. I'm wishing I'd come here before. I'm wishing I'd always be the person I feel like right now.
"Keep calling me, Daddy," Anne says, dancing over to shout in my ear.
"What did you say?"
Anne smiles, then points toward her pocket. "My boss probably called my dad, and now my dad is calling me," Anne says, as she pulls the cell phone out of her pants, then laughs way too loud. "He keeps calling, but it's cool, since I got it set on vibrate."
She looks at the phone, then moves toward the wall of flamingos, who look more like buzzards to me now that I'm alone. I turn my back to them. I know Anne's not talking to her father or mother, and if it was Tommy, she'd have mentioned it. That means she's talking to another friend, probably one of her Honor Society buddies. I'd like to think I'm Anne's only friend, but I know that's not the case.
"Nice moves," a deep voice shouts from behind. I'm shocked, not by the voice but by the fact that I didn't hear it coming. A combination of my hoodie and the techno din.
Even engaged in conversation, I see Anne manage to slip out a sly smile. I turn around and there's another smiling face greeting me. I take a step back, my natural stranger reaction.
"Don't stop," the boy says, moving closer. His mouth is too near my shiny left ear, but despite my discomfort, I just do as I'm told. I keep moving to the loud music, avoiding his eyes, and silently questioning his intentions. He's dressed pretty nice and neat, like he just came from work. He looks Indian: light brown skin, short hair on top, and maybe some brains u
p there, too, since he's not wearing expensive kicks. Seems the sharper the shoe, the duller the brain, but then again, why should I care? I'm sure, like most boys, he's come to talk with Anne, not me.
He's leaning toward me, but other than some cologne, there's no stench of smoke, weed, or booze, so I let him step closer. He's about my height, and while he's not skinny like Terrell, he's not thick. "Are you bald or something?" he says, pointing at my hoodie-covered head.
I put my hand over my mouth, another natural instinct, and then shake my head. By now, he must be wondering if I have any brains, even though I don't have nice shoes.
"You go to CMU too?" he asks, pointing now at my sweatshirt, and I've got to think quick in this instant game of old-school truth or dare. Do I tell him the truth: that I'm in high school, unlike him, or do I dare to lie and see where that takes me? Or maybe he's lying as well. I'm trying to catch his eyes, but he's looking me over. It feels creepy, maybe how Anne's boss makes her feel, but somehow it kind of feels fine to think he wants to look.
He takes a half step closer. I don't pull back; I don't lean forward. I stand up straight, and I take the low road. "I'm home for break, you too?"
"U2? I don't like U2," he shouts, then leans back to enjoy the puzzled expression on my face, which I can't seem to hide despite the hand in front of the mouth, the eyes looking down, and the covered skull. "I'm just busting you. So, what's your name? What dorm you in?"
Chasing Tail Lights Page 11
