"My dad was into photography?" I say out loud, looking at the photo like my grandma might answer back.
As I'm about to dig deeper into the box, my mom's car pulls up the driveway. I stuff everything back in its place as quickly as possible and shove the box in the corner again. I make it upstairs with my bag of old clothes just as my mom walks in the back door.
"Here," I say, and drop the bag on the floor, a plastic smile on my face. "I thought I'd clean out my bin in the basement."
My mom nods approvingly at the black bag and slips into her house slippers.
"I'll drop these off at the Salvation Army tomorrow."
I nod and go up to my room to finish out my grounding in silence. But as I sit at dinner that night, I stare at my parents, at my mom's eyes, almond-shaped just like a cartoon character's, and my dad's hands, thin and strong. So many wonderful physical features. Whether I've paid attention before or not, I know them because they're mine.
"Dad, did you always want to be a dentist?" I ask, his beautiful photos still on my mind.
He looks at me, mouth full of potatoes. "I don't know. I guess I just knew I didn't want to be a farmer."
"Why not?"
"Because farming is hard work and not a lot of money," he says.
"So you became a dentist for the money."
"Marty, you know we don't talk about money," my mom says, patting the side of her mouth with a cloth napkin. She's still dressed in her white Shady Willows Retirement Community and Nursing Home collared shirt.
"Why not?"
"Because it's rude." My mom cuts her meat with precision, the fork in her left hand and a knife in her right, sawing with just enough pressure on the pork. She takes the newly-cut piece and places it in her mouth, chewing quietly for at least ten seconds before swallowing.
I look back at my dad. "Did you ever want to be something else? Like an artist maybe?"
"Marty, where is this coming from?"
I keep wondering if my dad thinks about taking pictures. If he remembers that specific time in his life and wishes he'd held strong to what he loved. Maybe all this wanting and desire and need for life is from my parents, but they've spent so many years fixing people's gnarly teeth and decorating a house with meaningless shit that it's been suppressed too far below the surface, and they don't know how to let it out anymore.
"I want to know you guys better," I say.
"Honey, you've known me your entire life." My dad gets up from the table, his plate in hand, and walks into the kitchen. The only thing I hear is the sound of his slippers swishing against our bamboo floors.
I look back at my mom, hoping that for once she'll open the door to what's really under her perfect nails and skin, but she doesn't even look at me. Just takes a sip of her Chardonnay, licks her lips, and then clears her plate.
As I go to sleep, I wish I could know my parents before they had me, before life got so real they lost themselves. They lived so many years without me and had so many experiences and I'll never know those people. In fact, I'm not even sure they remember who they were. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry because someday when I have a baby, she won't know me either. She won't know about the boy with the guitar and my best friend with eyes the color of the sky, because it's all happening right now. Tomorrow it will be gone.
***
I sit in the parking lot the next morning, waiting for Lil to pull in. As I turn up the heat in my ancient car and rub my hands together, excitement bubbles over me. I can do anything today. Run through the fields behind my house, go pick up that Nirvana record at Vinyl Tap, drive with Lil at lightning speed down Forest Street and hang our heads out the window, screaming. And my parents can't stop me. I laugh to myself; I've changed my mind. Grounding sucks.
At 8:15, Lil still hasn't arrived. The bell will ring in five minutes and while she might not care about school as much as I do, she's always on time. I spin the skull ring around my finger and cut the engine. I can't be late, not on my first day out of seclusion.
But Lil isn't in English, either. I stare at her desk, waiting to hear her boots on the linoleum floor, but they never appear. A lump rises in my throat, and I send her a text.
Marty: I HAVE MY PHONE BACK!! Where R U? Sick?
I stare at the screen and tap my pen on the desk in an even rhythm. The bell rings for the end of the day. I haven't taken a single note. Lil must be sick. People get sick. Stuffing my phone in my purse, I pack up my empty notebook.
"Are you thinking about your audition?" Alex comes up next me in the hall.
"What?" I ask.
"The look on your face. Are you worried about your audition for Grease? Because I'm sure you'll be great." He nudges my side and smiles.
"Yeah," I nod.
"You're a shoe-in for Sandy. I can't imagine Mr. Spector casting someone else," he says as we reach my locker.
"I was actually thinking about trying out for Rizzo," I mumble.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Sandy. Thanks." I pull out my phone. Still no text. My fingernails strum on the metal locker. I'm overreacting. Lil probably has her head in the toilet. The flu is going around.
Alex leans his shoulder against the wall, towering over me as I grab my homework. "So I know you were grounded for what happened at your parents' Christmas party."
"You heard about that?"
Alex shrugs. "Small town. Anyway, I've been counting down the days and since today marks the beginning of your free-from-lockdown life, I was wondering if maybe..."
My Math notebook slips from my hands. I try to shove it into my backpack and worksheets spill all over the floor.
"Shit!" I cut Alex off and bend to collect the mess around my feet.
"Let me help you." He leans down at the same time and our heads bang together.
"Double shit." Falling back on my butt, I grab my forehead.
"I'm such an ass," Alex says and shakes his head. "Are you okay?" He reaches out to touch me, but I slink back.
"I'm fine." Crawling on my hands and knees, I start to collect the scattered papers before people step on them. I'm beginning to hate today. Why isn't Lil texting me? Why isn't she here? Rubbing my sore head, I'm blaming everything on her even though I know it's irrational.
As I grab the last piece of paper, Matt Three-Last-Names rounds the corner of the hallway. My breath catches in my throat. He hasn't emailed me in over a week. I want to look away, but I can't. My eyes are stuck on him and the sexy bright yellow vintage Cheerios T-shirt he's wearing.
"Nice to see you, My Hart," Matt says as he passes. He winks and I sit back on my heels, melting clear to the floor. His hair shines in the fluorescent lights of the school and his tight jeans hug his butt in perfect round form. Breathe, Marty. A brunette girl joins him at the door. I recognize her. Senior, cheerleader, name Meghan Whitlock. He touches her arm. A bowling ball-size stone falls in my stomach, but I tell myself she's just a friend. We kissed, after all. His lips touched mine. Who cares about an arm? And Matt e-mails me. That means something.
Remembering his hands in my hair sends tingles down my arms and relieves the gaping hole in my gut. Sort of.
"Here," Alex says. He hands me a stack of papers and stands up.
"Thanks." I look over my shoulder one last time as Matt goes out of view. When I turn back to Alex, he's staring past me in the same direction.
"Well, I can tell you're distracted." He pauses, a tension in his jaw I've never seen before. And then he smiles. "About your audition, of course."
"I am. I'm sorry." The lie falls out of me like water.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Alex walks away, shaking out his arms, his broad athletic figure growing even wider as it shifts into a silhouette.
With no text from Lil, I drive home and spend the afternoon the same way I have the past month. Alone in my room.
***
Two more days pass. No Lil. No texts. No emails. Nothing. As I pull into the parking lot, nerves zing through my entire body. I te
ll myself she has the flu or maybe mono, but even in a drugged-out stupor Lil speaks. Last night I sent her a text that said I was going to become a Rolling Stones fan if she didn't respond. And she didn't respond. To be silent isn't in her nature. I stare at the clock as it ticks on. 8:15. 8:17. 8:20. The bell rings; no Lil.
I bang my hand on the steering wheel. That's it. I speed out of the parking lot, not caring how mad my parents will be at me for skipping school, how I'll probably be grounded for life all over again, and drive straight to Lil's house.
I see the silver trailer reflecting in the sunlight half a mile down the road, but it's different today. Colors are painted on the outside in a design that's hard to make out. Did Maggie get creative or something? I know it can't be Lil. She's in Shop at school, not Art.
As I get closer, my stomach rolls with nausea and I almost pull over to the side of the road and throw up the granola I ate for breakfast. The trailer is painted, but not in the way I thought. Colorful words become visible from the road, red and blue and black and green all smeared together. Whore. Slut. Dyke. Baby killer. Trash. I blink and pray they'll disappear, but they don't. Tears stream down my cheeks as I pull into the Addison Farm driveway.
I bang on the door, my fist clenched so tight my fingers feel like they'll break.
"Lil, open up!" I scream. Nothing. "Come on, I know you're in there!"
I step back and stare at the external damage done to Lil's home. Somehow I know the internal scars will never fade. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can make me bleed to death. Who would do something like this?
"Please," I say. "Please open the door. Or I'm going straight to Vinyl Tap to buy a Justin Bieber record."
The door flies open. Lil stands in the doorway, her blue eyes bloodshot and swollen, clutching a copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
"Don't even joke about something like that." She points the book at me.
I inhale a deep breath far into my lungs, relief washing over me. "Got you to open the door," I smile.
She shakes her head and motions me inside.
Even with awful words etched into the trailer on the outside, it's the same when I walk through the door, like my chest has opened up to the sunlight and it's warming me. Lil walks over to the record player and turns down the music.
"Reading?" I ask.
She nods, then dog ears her page and closes the book.
"Anne of Green Gables," I say and point to Lil's book. "It's my go-to. I read it at least once a year."
She nods, picking up a basket of laundry, and starts to fold. I'm surprised how colorful the clothes are. Purple and red and orange. They must be her mom's.
"Where's Maggie?" I ask.
"At an interview." Lil folds a shirt and adds it to the pile, not looking at me. "Apparently, she doesn't want to be a waitress forever."
I sit down on her bed and wring my hands together. The pressure of what's written outside on the trailer is squashing my breath. I know I need to ask, but what to say? Too many things have been said, said all over in bright violent words. Unclenching my hands, I run them down the cotton material of my dress, pressing it straight, and notice a red string hanging down from the bottom hem. Thinking I can pull it off, I try to snip it with one clean yank, but it unravels even more. Damn it. Wrapping the string around my finger, I give it one more pull and it snaps. No one would know a little section has fallen loose from the rest of the fabric. It's like it never happened. Why can't I do that to the words?
"What happened?" I finally ask.
Lil waves her hand through the air, a red bra clenched tight in her fist. "You know, we thought we'd liven up the place with some spray paint."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?" Lil smacks the bra down and looks into my eyes, her blue gaze so intense it takes up the entire space, like water is slowly filling her insides and she might overflow.
"Don't be funny. This is serious."
"You don't think I know that?" Lil shoves her hands across the bed, blowing the neatly folded clothes to smithereens.
"Just talk to me," I say, and walk over to her. She backs away.
"What is there to talk about? You can see it. Do you want me to tell you that they came in the middle of the night? That they were such cowards that they couldn't even do it in broad daylight? Or that my mom came home from her shift and cried? Or that my grandpa told her it's what she deserves."
"Lil ..."
"Don't! Don't feel bad for me. I don't want your pity. Pity is for pussies." She sucks in a breath, running her hands through her hair.
"I don't pity you," I say and try to grab her hand. She pulls her arm away and runs out of the trailer. I rush after her, the cold of the day chilling me to my core.
"I just want to help," I yell after her.
"Help?" she screams. "Do you want to scrub this piece of shit until the words are gone?" Lil kicks the base of the trailer; rust falls from the bottom. "Because they'll never be gone. Maggie lives with the words people say about her every damn day."
"But they're not true!"
Lil fixes her eyes on me, a burning fire behind the blue that I've never seen before. She grabs a rock from the ground and shoves it in my face. "Truth is subjective. If I told you this was a bird every single day for the next ten years, eventually you'd start calling it that."
"But I'd know it was a rock even if I called it a bird," I say.
She throws the rock into her grandpa's barren field, hurling it hard and high in the air. It disappears into the sunlight and then falls back to the earth with a thud. Lil kicks the ground with her boot, sending up a spray of sludgy snow and dirt.
"You're only one person and you're different, Marty. Most people would call it a bird and move on." She points at the trailer. "This is the truth to everyone. Everyone! We can never just be. Why can't we just be!" she yells into the air, falling back on her heels and dropping her arms to her side like they're two-ton boulders. Tears stream down Lil's face, the blue in her eyes matching the clear winter sky behind her, and she looks at me. "Why won't they leave us alone?"
I run to her and wrap my arms around her tough figure. She stiffens and falls into my embrace like holding up the world has become too hard. And I want to support her. To let her crumble, like I've crumbled so many times with her.
"Someone told me once that people are assholes," I say into her hair.
Lil snuffs a laugh into my shoulder. "Did you seriously threaten me with Justin Bieber?"
I pull back and smooth the dark hair that's caught in her tears on her face. "I did."
We laugh, a deep belly-shaking laugh in the middle of the field where Maggie's baby was found, next to a trailer with lies painted on the side.
A rock is a rock no matter how badly it wants to fly.
"I want to show you something," I say, walking arm and arm with Lil back to the trailer.
She takes a deep breath, running her hand along one of the words, her finger following the letters. TRASH. "Let me get my coat."
***
We drive over to my house in my car. It's weird to be on the streets in the middle of the day when I should be in school. I roll down the windows and let the cool wind clear Lil's face of any remaining tears.
Up in my room, she sits on my bed, hugging a pink pillow against her black fur coat. The space looks weird with such a black figure surrounded by all the light, but I like it.
"I can't believe I've never been in your house," she says, shifting back on my bed until she's almost lying down. "It's pink. I like the stars, though. I had some in my room in Florida."
I walk over to my desk and open the bottom drawer. My hand practically shakes as I open the box with all my poems. A thousand questions and worries circulate through my brain, but I swallow them down.
"Here," I say, holding out the box.
"What is it?" Lil sits up on her elbows.
I set the box down on the bed and Lil pulls back the lid. She leafs through the pages, her finge
rs skimming over all the words I've locked away.
"If I stretched my veins around the entire world,
Would my heart beat with it?
Or would I squeeze the life out of everything,
Would red run over the water and turn it to poison,
Or would my blood mix with life
And we would all know what it felt like to be alive." Lil reads off one of the sheets.
"You wrote that?"
I nod, a nervous bubble squeezing my throat. I've never heard someone read my words out loud and I don't know if it's good or bad or nonsense. Lil's face doesn't reveal anything.
"It's beautiful, Pollyanna," she says. "Like you're screaming all over the page."
An exhale pushes out of my chest, coming from my words and from the box that's kept so much locked up for so long. For the first time, everything in me breathes.
"Not all words are bad," I say as I sit down next to her.
Lil looks at me, and then grabs my hand in hers. "You're my best friend."
We lie on my bed and she reads through more of my poetry with no regard for the time or the fact that we both should be in school or that Lil's home has been ruined.
"You should be a writer, Marty," Lil says.
I shake my head. "I'm not that good." I pause for a second and think the words in my head before saying them into the universe. "You're not your mom."
Lil turns to look at me, her dark hair falling to the side of her face. "What if everyone leaves me like they did her?"
"I won't." I say, grabbing her hand and holding her black polished fingers between mine.
I don't know where I was before this year. Lost in some floating atmosphere, maybe, filled with smiles and politeness and absolute nothing. Lil brought me back from the dead.
We lie, heads touching and hair mixing together, strand after strand overlapping. A meshing of two people, each with her own distinct color and texture, but so beautiful when chaotically woven together.
"I have an idea," I say, sitting up.
"Does it involve little Cupids holding shotguns?"
I roll my eyes, "No."
Playing Nice Page 16
