by S R Savell
Dinner turns out good. I’m sort of out of it through the whole deal, only talking when someone asks me something.
At the end of the night, Ma leaves us and heads upstairs, now satisfied Nathaniel isn’t out to kill/eat me. I’m in the kitchen, wrapping leftovers for him. My thinking’s all over the place. Nathaniel, Mom, school, graduation. It’s all fighting for headspace, and I can’t divvy up enough room.
“Can I help?”
I’ve been staring at the aluminum foil. “Sorry. Spaced a minute,” I say, handing him a plate.
He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, partially because this would be the fourth time in two hours and partially because he’s not stupid.
“You have to be—”
I sit and point to a chair. “Want to sit a minute?”
He shakes his head. “You have to be really careful now. It’s only going to get worse.”
“Well, I didn’t expect it to get any better.”
I know he means well, but I’ve handled these girls for almost four years. Another few months is manageable.
Finally, he does take the seat, pulling it close to me. “Can I show you something?”
“Yeah.”
The aluminum crinkles when he slides the plate onto the table. It grates on my ears, a barely there sound that feels like a scream.
His wandering hand ruffles his hair.
My own pushes his bangs back. “Gonna keep me in suspense?”
“No.” His fingers rub at the base of his shirt, pulling lightly at the fabric. He turns away in his seat. When he pulls up his shirt, I wish he never had.
I’m staring at his back, trying to see it as a clean picture. Because the skin I see is tanned, dark. But layered across his spine are discolored marks, harsh scars of all shapes and tones. The worst one goes right down the middle of his back, a thick, deliberate mark that I reach out and touch, palm first.
I put my forehead on his back.
“Nathaniel?” The unasked question winds down in my throat.
“People are sick sometimes. And”—I feel him take a breath—“it doesn’t matter if you’ve hurt them or not. Because they sense it. The weakness in you, you know?”
“Yeah.”
It feels strange, like a vein running down the middle of my forehead.
I pull his shirt down, smooth the wrinkles over his shoulders and spine, my chest cramped like it’s been blasted with ice water. I urge him to turn around; then I look him in the eye and find my mouth won’t move.
His expression is making me nauseated and angry and so sad I could rip my nails out.
“Don’t let them hurt you. Please?”
“Okay.” My thumb rubs the scar under his eye, wishing it away.
“Bed. Now,” Mom says from the doorway.
I don’t argue, and I don’t see him again until my dreams.
Run, he’s saying, but I’m already gone.
Chapter 9
Monday is as entertaining as listening to Aunt Gert talk about her corns. It’s Bring Your Mother to Therapy Day, and ten minutes into it, my nails have started to bleed.
So now I’ve taken refuge in the bathroom to avoid them and all their whys, all their we’re here for yous. All lies. They’re only here to make their lives easier. Humans are comfort creatures, and let’s just say, I’m raining all over their comfort parade. With me having trouble at school, everyone has to worry whether or not I’m going to blow the place up or kill myself or become a druggie prostitute with a dry sense of humor. If they can only get me back to my normal insanity, all will be well.
The warm water feels good on my face. I throw another paper towel into the wastebasket, telling myself I’ll go back when I’m done with the third.
If I had known this was going to be so much trouble, I would have told them I fell down the stairs. The principal got called in, which was awkward because he and Mom dated. Then we had to go through the whole, “Oh, Marty, how are you? Still bald and lonely, I see,” Q&A session that’s only meant to make her feel guilty for dumping him on their first date. Strike one’s already against me because of my own demons lurking in the personal file. Now I have to deal with a hysterical mother, my silicone counselor, and a principal with hungry eyes.
A girl comes in, heels clicking on the tile. “Yeah, I know, I know, just bring it. I have to have it.”
She looks to me.
I look at her.
We nod, and she heads to the back wall, leaning on one hip, phone to her ear with an upraised shoulder.
I try not to listen, but it’s hard in an all-tile room.
“Just bring the paper, okay?” She hangs up and checks her makeup in the mirror. Unsatisfied, she pulls out her compact and spackles on the whore paint.
“Nice getup,” I say, glancing at the navy skirt suit and black heels.
“Likewise.” She’s powdering her face, sucking in her cheekbones to get the outline right.
“Career day?”
“Not to be rude, but why are you talking to me?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the mirror.
“Thought you’d be interesting. I was wrong.” I wash my face again, ignoring the buzz of the phone in my jeans.
I watch her yank out a paper towel, pull in her lips, and carefully erase the leftover pink lipstick.
My phone vibrates again.
Where are you at?
“What’s your dream job?” I ask.
She glances over, stops washing midscrub. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”
“You mean we can’t fuck?” I pout.
She recoils. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“Yeah, that’s what my therapist tells me.”
Mom thinks it best to take me home to recuperate. On the way, she asks if I want to stop for fast food. A few minutes later, she’s trying to have a heart-to-heart over a Happy Meal next to a table of three crying kids and one harried father.
“Honey, I had no idea this was going on.”
“Mm, this is better than I remember.” Sauce drips onto my chin.
“Do you have to eat like an animal in public?”
“So it’s cool at home, then?”
She sighs, sipping her Diet Coke. “We’re worried about you. Why won’t you let us in?”
“Stranger danger?” I shrug, wiping my chin with fries.
“Is it that boy? Has he done something to you?”
My gaze rises from the paper mat with the maze on it. “Nathaniel hasn’t done anything. He actually makes me happy.”
“But how?” Her voice drops, a strand of hair swinging into her face when she leans in.
I throw up my hands. “Sex. Lots and lots of sex.”
A few heads turn, and she gets red. “Michelle Leanne—”
“Uh-oh, I’m in trouble—”
“If you don’t start acting right—”
“You’ll have to pull your ninja moves on me?”
She glares.
I smile brightly.
Grabbing her purse, she pulls out her phone and leaves me to myself, exactly how I’ve always wanted to be.
I decide to visit Mrs. Stotes before work. When I walk in, I have a bag of chips in one hand and a Coke in the other.
“You’ve just made my day,” she says.
I attempt a grin from underneath my extra thick layer of foundation and hand her the stuff.
She holds her arms out. “Hug?”
I do, patting her arm once before stepping back. “Take the food, woman.”
“Ooh, someone’s touchy.”
“Damn right. Life sucks.”
“Indeed it does.” She tears open the chips. “Shall we eat our sadness away?”
I flop down. “We shall.”
We eat most of the chips before she says, “You going to tell me what’s wrong, or must I play detective?”
I’m already regretting my transparency.
“Detective, I guess.”
“Okay. Issues at home?”
She thumps her chin. “Hmm. School stuff?”
“Warmer.”
“Was it math class?”
“Nope.”
“I give up. What was it?”
“My therapy session.”
She nods. “What did they say?”
I crack my knuckles on my knees. “Nothing unusual. I just hate their guts.” I lean back in the chair, rub my eyelids with my pointer finger.
“So you came to vent?”
“Yeah. And I said I’d visit, so today was an efficient one.” I sigh, not in the mood to laugh at my own stupid jokes.
Her voice softens. “Big baby.”
“You.”
“To clarify, I’m the one dying, and you’re pouting because you had to go to therapy?”
“It’s different. You want to die. I don’t want what they’re doing to me.”
“I don’t want to die, hon. If I had the chance, I would want to feel better. But life isn’t always about us and what we want.”
“I know, I know.” I pick at my lip. “I think I need some guidance. Care to give me some?”
“On such short notice?” She lifts her notepad. “I don’t have anything prepared. I’m sure I can do something du haut de ma tête.”
I groan and cover my ears, but I’m smiling a little now.
“Shh, I’m preparing.” She shuts her eyes and begins to breathe slowly.
This goes on for a bit.
I think she’s fallen asleep, so I stand to go.
Her eyes pop open.
I sit.
“Okay, here goes.” She faces me, her motherly face on. “Ahem.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“I guess I can spare a minute.”
She sticks her tongue out, then puts on her lecture voice. “Michelle, life is hard. Too hard sometimes. And know that at the end of it, you have to be able to live with yourself. But you have to be able to do that now too, you understand. You can’t live with worry and regret and anger and then expect to find peace when you’re dead. So whatever happens, learn to deal, because the world won’t stop to help you up when it’s done stomping on you.” She smiles. “Or something like that.”
“Bravo, bravo!”
She mock bows. “Thank you, thank you.”
It was silly, but it worked. Today’s worries have been wiped out of my head, at least for the moment. Mrs. Stotes does that for you: takes the bite out of the pain, like a swig of whiskey or a nice laughing bout. Just one more reason I love her.
“Only you would do something so elaborate for the sake of humor.”
“I know.” She winks. “Are you okay now?”
“I’m fine. Thanks, nice lady.”
“You mean nice old lady,” she says, dropping her notepad onto the table.
“You’re not old.”
“The hell I’m not. Any older and I’d be clacking my false teeth and eating creamed corn. Which is delicious, by the way.” She pushes the up arrow button on her bed, bringing herself closer. “So are you excited about graduation?”
“Very.”
“Have any plans?”
I scratch a healing bruise on my face. “I may take a year off, then try for college.”
“And where does Nathaniel fit into this?” she asks, eyebrows like silver silkworms dancing on her forehead.
“Oh, he’s coming too. I think I’ll hide him under the bed in my dorm room.”
She chuckles but doesn’t reply.
“Wait. You’re being serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I worry if you go off, he’ll be all alone again.”
“He’s my best friend. I wouldn’t forget about him.”
“You’d be surprised how much one can forget in a college semester.”
A machine beeps, and I glance over.
“Don’t worry. It’s broken. And would you do something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Look under the bed. There should be a book on top of a cigar box.”
“Ooh, Mrs. Stotes smokes.” I wag a finger at her.
“Hush, child, and get the package.”
I duck, peering into the dark. The tile is cool on my palms. Under the bed is a large box with a black duffel bag on top and, next to it, a little hardcover book with a cigar box underneath. I drag out the book and hand it to her.
She doesn’t take it, though. “I want you to have it.”
I go to open it.
She reaches out a hand. “Not yet. When you get home, look in the front cover. It’ll tell you what to do.”
“Oh, come on. I won’t be home for like five hours.”
“What did I say about learning to deal?”
I narrow my eyes, trying for The Look, but it doesn’t hold up, especially when she glowers back.
“Fail.”
“Fail?”
“Yes, isn’t that what you young people say? You failed.”
I sit back down, holding the book tight. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
A nurse comes in, a young girl who can’t be more than twenty. She looks misshapen, bent, and tired. “It’s time for your bath, Mrs. Stotes.”
“Well, hon, I have to go get naked for this young woman. See you soon?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I stand. “And thank you. Really.” I want to hug her, but it feels weird somehow, so I wave.
The doorknob is in my hand when she calls, “You do what I said, you hear me?”
I dart out, then shut the door quick and quiet so she won’t hear, won’t see that already I’m not able to deal.
Avoiding trouble at school is hard. Very hard. Reallydifficultbecausethedumbbitcheswon’tleaveyoualone.
Example 1: Tanya has taken to hitting me in the face with just about anything she can get away with throwing. And since we have three classes together, it’s a big friggin’ problem. I swear I’m developing a nervous twitch.
Example 2: An old trick they like to play is the drop-Michelle-on-her-ass maneuver. They have their ways. They usually kick one of my feet out from under me or haphazardly swing their monster purses at my head as they stomp by. I’ve fallen twice in the past four years; I expect soon they’ll enlist fellow demons to aid the cause.
Example 3: Allyson has uprooted Max, the guy who sits behind me in precalc, and transplanted her bony ass into the soil. All class period I’m pelted with paper, pencil leads, and double-sided tape. If I doze, Allyson kicks my chair. I have to tuck my hood under to keep her from sticking chewing gum inside it. (Been there, done that, and it wasn’t even a good flavor.)
In retribution? I . . . do nothing.
I don’t move seats. I don’t talk to her. I don’t turn around and smack the Maybelline off her face. I do picture her death a lot. And Tanya’s. I also imagine how this particular scenario would play out if I wasn’t on this peace-and-tolerance kick.
Allyson: Hits Michelle with broken pencil. Pelts her with more foreign objects until she turns around.
Michelle: “Go play in traffic, bitch.”
Michelle: Flips the desk and sends the cretin crashing into the wall.
Everyone applauds.
End scene.
So after this bullshit, my mood has been understandably stabbed, shot, burned, and buried. And that’s before PE comes around.
When I get in from doing the extra laps Johannes assigned, I find that my clothes have been hidden, locker broken into.
And my backpack is gone from its hiding spot.
I’ve always known better than to leave it unprotected. The locker was the most obvious target, so I learned to squirrel it away under the bleachers before going to class.
I don’t care about the clothes I find ripped and covered in what smells like piss. I don’t care about my broken sunglasses or the shoes floating in the toilet.
I care about the paper and all the writing on it and the shreds of it littering the floor. They stretch from the entrance
to the bathroom, a wrecked trail. They didn’t leave one page intact, not one, but I’m grabbing them anyways, and I stuff them by the handful into my shirt. I can’t breathe, can’t think, and I see the blue spine, the only thing still together, lying faceup, as if a story just crawled from the pages.
And all the stars th
ike
fuc
smiles so big
he
ersonality disorders
an
you’d think that
Hands stuff the shreds in the cover’s belly, one scoop at a time. And soon the spine’s gone from sight, covered in its own colorful guts. Blue, black, yellow, purple, its lifeblood heaped into the shell. And I can’t put it back, but I keep trying. And when it won’t work, I take my bra off and hide the pages and book and cover inside, then pull it to my chest.
Destruction is all around me.
But when the door opens, I don’t feel a thing.
“Get to class, Pearce,” Johannes says, like I’m not kneeling in toilet water and clinging to my bra like it’s a dead infant.
I drag my gaze upward and stand. “How about you go fuck yourself?”
Her jaw drops. “Office. Now.”
And I go.
Mom wants to file harassment charges.
I say don’t bother. They haven’t broken me yet. Besides, the school wouldn’t do anything except slap them with a warning, maybe some community service to save face. I’m the one with the record. And for all anyone knows, they had no part in the notebook incident.
Three plus years of writing, gone. All my work, dreams, poems, songs, ideas, recipes, and randomness that means nothing to anyone but me, gone.
There are a lot of empty hours to fill between now and graduation without my journal to keep me occupied, they’ll find. The work of an idle mind will be their undoing.
In the time between sadness and revenge, I’m sitting here trying to read Mrs. Stotes’s book, ready to follow the instructions through. Taped in the inner cover is one of those card pockets used at the library, and inside it are exactly eight note cards.
1) Follow all instructions in order.
2) Read this book.
The words pass without impression. Paragraph three comes around, and I have no earthly idea who Lisey is or what else is going on.
