Learning Seventeen

by Brooke Carter

  Entry #2: What Came First

  I am supposed to start with my family. What family? We’re broken, not together anymore, not really. Eggs. I think it all started with eggs. I remember Mom rushing down the stairs. I was carrying a plate with a half-eaten bacon and egg sandwich on it. I was ten, I think, and Mom and Dad had been having their nasty arguments ever since the baby died. Even though it wasn’t really a baby yet.

  Anyway, I could hear them banging the cupboard doors and smashing the plates, and I figured I should go up to the kitchen and put my plate away because then they’d probably stop for a little while. Mom would be sitting on the kitchen counter in her dirty old jogging suit, crying while she drank her coffee from the special mug with her name on it. Elsinora.

  We had to have that mug specially made because we could never find one with her name on the rack at the drugstore. Maybe that’s why she gave me such a regular name. Plain old regular Jane.

  Just below the rim of that mug there’d always be a stain of hot-pink lipstick. A permanent record of Mom’s kiss, like a fingerprint. I used to say that if she ever went missing all we’d have to do was give the cops that mug.

  So yeah, she scared the crap out of me flying down the stairs and I dropped my plate and I expected her to yell, but instead she grabbed me and squashed me into her chest really hard.

  I noticed that she wasn’t wearing her regular clothes. She was wearing jeans and pumps and a leather jacket, and she pushed my head so hard into her shoulder that I felt my nose crack a little. The pain shot through my cheeks and all I could smell was blood and leather and her cheap drugstore body spray. The skin of her neck was all warm and soft. She whispered in my ear.

  All I could think about were the little skin tags on her neck and how she always told me that I would twist on them as a baby and try to pull them off.

  She whispered goodbye to me and then pushed me away.

  That’s when I noticed the duffel bag on the step behind her. She grabbed it and went out the door.

  My fat old mutt, Chrissy, waddled to the top of the steps and woofed at me. I asked her what the hell she was looking at and then threw the plate at her.

  It’s funny. I always thought it would be my dad who left.

  Eventually, after months of radio silence, Mom sent me a collectible spoon from San Francisco. I tried to imagine my mom in San Francisco but her face kept getting more and more out of focus until she was just this faceless body hanging off the back of a streetcar, and I kept imagining the body falling off and getting run over, so I had to stop thinking. Sometimes I have to take the pictures in my brain and tear them up and make them disintegrate into nothing because I just can’t take thinking about things anymore.

  Like eggs. I can’t eat them anymore since I learned about the life cycle of chickens. At school we put some eggs into an incubator to see if they’d hatch into cute little chicks. We learned about what the eggs were made of and how baby chickens form, and I remember I started feeling sick and couldn’t believe I had ever eaten an egg before.

  There is this thing called a snow embryo that you can sometimes see when you crack an egg. It’s a little white globule near the yolk that would turn into a chicken if it was allowed to be fertilized and live.

  I remember thinking about Mom and the baby she was supposed to have. I wondered if it was bigger or smaller than a snow embryo. I wondered if Mom ever thought about getting me cut out while I was still a globule. Dad always said that kind of thing is a sin. I guess that’s why he was so mad at Mom for it. Maybe that’s why she left, I don’t know.

  Entry #3: Enter the Stepmonster

  My counselor wants to know about Sheila. Here’s what I know about her—not much. Sheila is the ultimate closed book. When Dad first got a girlfriend after Mom left, I was pretty excited. Then I actually met Sheila the Baptist. I remember asking her what a Baptist was, and she said it was someone who was BORN AGAIN in Christ. She told me that if I wanted eternal life, all I had to do was ask Jesus to forgive me and he’d come into my life and make me whole again.

  I said, “That sounds pretty good, but how do you do it?”

  She said, “Pray.”

  One night, not long after they were married, Dad and Sheila went on a date to a movie. When they left, I sat in the rocking chair and prayed out loud.

  “Hi, Jesus,” I said. “Want to come into my life?”

  I kept thinking I’d feel something, like a warm glow or a spark or a shock or something. But I didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. I knew then that Sheila would never love me. How could she? God didn’t even want me.

  Chapter Four

  Perhaps you’re wondering if everything about No Hope is awful. Yes, yes, it is. Well, I guess my roommate Mouse is okay. She’s basically mute, so at least it’s quiet. My classes are boring because they spend less time on traditional subjects and more time on Bible study. We’re most definitely not being taught about evolution in science class, and my English class has really boring books with no sex or murder in them or anything that could be considered anti-Christian in any way. Honestly, I don’t mind some of this God stuff, but do they have to be so hard-core about it?

  When we have lunch in the cafeteria, we have to have a group prayer beforehand. When we play volleyball in gym class, we have to have a group prayer beforehand. It just never ends. And none of these people ever seem to get tired.

  So today I have a free hour of time to go to the library and generally do what I want. I guess a few weeks at the school without making too many waves means they are letting their guard down around me. That’s good. I can use that to my advantage.

  The school itself is pretty big. One block on the north side holds the dorms for the residential kids (the naughty ones like me), and one block in the south houses the classrooms. They are connected by a long corridor where the main administration and counseling offices are. The gym is to the east, adjacent to the cafeteria and library.

  You want to know something really shocking? Some kids come here voluntarily and are happy to bus in and out every day. Seriously, there is a large courtyard at the front, next to the most important building on campus—the chapel—and every morning and evening the buses roll in and out so that all the kids can attend services. We also attend services on family visit days.

  Sheila is always getting mad at me when we are at the school church on family day because I won’t sing loud like this other girl, a popular chick named Nicky Huffton. She is in my youth group and sings in the youth choir and she always has rosy cheeks and bouncy hair and trimmed nails. She sings cheesy, New Age-y, pop-style Jesus songs at the pulpit with a microphone while her mom gestures and sings along from the front pew. I’m sure you can guess—she is one of the kids who wants to come to No Hope on a bus.

  The Hufftons are like my parents’ idols. Mrs. Huffton runs all the women’s ministry stuff, and Mr. Huffton is the head deacon. Nicky sits straight up in her pew like there is a rod up her butt and the whole family makes a big show of getting all moved and weepy during the sermons—especially when Pastor Jim is at the pulpit.

  Pastor Jim is the head Jesus-thumper. He’s this mysterious guy we never really see until the congregation needs baptisms or fresh bouts of brainwashing. Pastor Jim looks like a real Baptist should—skinny (not gluttonous) and bearded (wise), with straight white teeth (for all the smiling), and dressed entirely in beige clothing (like Jesus). The thing about Pastor Jim is, when he gets going on a sermon he can really rile the congregation up. When he leads us all in prayer I like to keep my eyes open a tiny bit so I can look around at everyone’s faces. They are all fakers. Some look rapt, some look like they are going to cry, some smile and nod, some look peaceful, some even look angry or like they are going to give God a great big fist bump any second. Some, like Sheila, make little hmm noises and whisper yes and Amen. They’re the worst.

  One time at youth group, we all had to take turns leading the group in prayer, and when it was my turn I blew them all away when
I asked the Lord to MAKE US MORE LIKE JESUS. Oh, counselor Terry was tickled by that one, I could tell. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s imitating. My real mom always said I should be an actress.

  Nicky Huffton totally hates that I am so good at memorizing scripture. Ever since Sheila gave me my own Bible, I’ve been devastating the youth group with my readings. It’s yellow, that Bible, and it has a picture of a young Jesus surrounded by children and baby animals. Sheila asked me to memorize the entire Psalm 23. You know, the one that goes “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” My favorite part is the whole “walking through the valley of the shadow of death” thing. I love anything dark and dramatic.

  I can rip through that psalm, adding inflection and drama at the good parts. I say it for Sheila and then she leaves me alone for a little while. You do what you have to, you know?

  Entry #4: The Girl Who Corrupted Me

  Terry keeps asking me who my first lesbian crush was, and it’s starting to get weird. I mean, is he getting off on this? I told him it was Wonder Woman, but he wants to know who the first girl I ever “sinned” with was. Well, here you go, Terry.

  It was Lisa Cork. She lives across the street and is a year older than me. She thinks that makes her way more mature and she treats me like I don’t know anything. I don’t mind because mostly she is nice and she always has cigarettes. She steals them from her stepmom and we go smoke and talk about how we hate our stepmoms. Sometimes we make out. I’m not really that attracted to her because she is super petite, and I like bigger, stronger-looking girls. I don’t even think Lisa is exclusively into girls, but I don’t exactly have anyone else to make out with. I’m pretty sure I am her type though. I’ve never had trouble attracting girls or guys. I’m pretty tall, and I’ve got some curves, and I was blessed with the same dark mane of glorious hair my mom has. Top that with my big green eyes and I have everything I need to get my way.

  Chapter Five

  “So, Jane, I’ve been reading through your latest journal entries, and I have to say…” counselor Terry starts and then trails off.

  “Say what?” I ask.

  “Uh, well…” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His office is decorated in various Bible-themed crafts, no doubt given to him by the countless delinquent kids he’s saved from hellfire.

  “You have a unique point of view. Do you ever feel like you are alone?”

  “How do you mean?” I ask. “Of course I am alone. My family kicked me out and put me in Jesus prison.”

  “Reform school,” corrects Terry. “And we like to think of this as a place of love, a place where you can blossom into the young woman you’re meant to be. A young woman who follows in the footsteps of Christ.”

  I make a gagging noise, and I see that Terry’s face is flushing red. I’m getting a rise out of him. Good.

  “Jane, don’t you want to be happy? What would make you happy?”

  “I will be happy when I walk out of this place and never come back.”

  Terry nods. “I’m sorry that you just don’t seem to be engaging with the program.”

  “Well, Terry,” I say, “I hate your program, so…”

  “Jane, you will never be free without Jesus.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “Fine,” says Terry, tossing aside my file. “Just do me a favor, okay?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Can you just not scare the other kids? You’re making some of them uncomfortable.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’ve just—we’ve gotten some complaints that you are whispering threats during study time, and one girl thought you were staring at her in the bathroom.”

  “Right,” I say, anger rising in my chest. “Because I am a huge, evil lesbo? It’s so goddamned typical. I didn’t do anything!”

  “Language! Now, that’s not—”

  “Whatever, Terry. I get it. Everyone hates me, I’m a lost cause, I’m going to burn forever.” I get up and go to the door. “I’ve been keeping to myself this whole time and you people still won’t let me be.”

  “Jane, wait,” he says. “Just try, okay?”

  “Terry, man, all I ever do is try,” I say. “I’ve been trying my whole life. I’m done with that.”

  “You understand we will keep you here for as long as your parents want. This isn’t going to be a quick stay.”

  “What?” I whirl around.

  “You’re not eighteen yet, so you’ll be here as long as you’re a minor.”

  “But…I don’t turn eighteen for like six more months.”

  Terry shrugs, and I swear I see a little smile play across his face.

  “Go to hell, Terry,” I hiss.

  I walk out the door and make sure to slam it hard behind me.

  I’m so mad that by the time I have to attend mandatory Bible study, I’ve decided I am going to seduce Samantha (who everyone calls Sam), the semi-hot senior with the shaggy, sandy hair and a swimmer’s lean body. She has soft brown eyes and even softer-looking lips. Since they already think I’m making passes at every girl in the school, I might as well live up to their clichéd expectations.

  I can tell Sam’s into me even with the ugly, boxy uniform they make us wear. I play with the way it hangs on my body and roll up the waistband on the big pleated skirt so it’s not so long. I always stand with one hip out to the side so she can see I have a shape. I let the buttons of my shirt gape a bit so she can see my skin all white and creamy against the rough fabric.

  The other kids here are prudes. Half of them are here because they want to be, and that means they’ve barely even kissed yet. Take Mouse. I bet she doesn’t even know what kissing with tongue is like. The other half of them, the supposed bad kids, aren’t even that bad. One girl is here because she got too many Cs on her report card. Another one had a party while her parents were away, and some stuff got broken. So far I don’t talk to anyone except Mouse, and that’s only because of proximity. But I know that stories about me are getting around. Good.

  Here I am in the middle of it all, a shark in a guppy tank. That’s something Sheila used to say to me after picking me up from the principal’s office when I’d done some bad thing or another.

  She hasn’t come to visit since the first few Sundays. You know how some people are lapsed Christians who only show up on holidays or when they need a favor from God? Well, Sheila is a lapsed parent. Dad calls once a week, but that’s it. I think Sheila wants him to forget about me. Occasionally Dad sends me letters that Lisa Cork has given him. She puts puffy stickers on them and scratch-and-sniffs, which I like. I sniff until I feel like I’ll get a nosebleed. The best one she sent was a giant pickle sticker.

  At night I take the pickle out of its envelope and press it to my face, inhaling its synthetic tartness. It smells so much like the real thing that my mouth starts to water. I think about what’s real and what’s not. I wonder how much of life is a real pickle and how much is just a sticker that smells like one.

  Chapter Six

  In the mornings we have group therapy and play all these dumb trust games. Like the one where you fall backward and have the other person catch you. The first time didn’t go so well.

  Nicky Huffton and I went first. In some misguided statement about the social politics of this place, Terry thinks that if he can just pair up the perfect Christian female specimen (her) with the hellbound (me), somehow Nicky’s chastity will transfer through to me. Or we’ll become friends like they do in bad ’80s movies, and all will be well, and I’ll start wanting to wear pastels and bake stuff. The problem is, it will never happen.

  Nicky looked over her shoulder at me and whispered, “Don’t drop me, bitch.” So what could I do? I had to live up to her expectations. I took a little step to the side and she sailed on by. I watched her eyes get bigger at the moment she realized I wasn’t going to catch her. It was all I could do not to step on her face once she was on the floor.

  It was funny until I realized I was the
one who had to fall next.

  Today, after the trust games, we toss eggs. Some break and get on the floor, but we wipe them up with paper towel. I get paired with Sam, and we manage to toss the same egg to each other twenty-three times before it breaks in her hands. I can see that she’s happy to be playing with me.

  Then Pastor Jim tells us a story about this couple who have a whole bunch of kids and are expecting another one, but they don’t have any money, and the doctors tell them the baby is probably going to be blind, deaf and mentally disabled.

  Pastor Jim asks, “What would you do if you were them? Would you have an abortion?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “No!” The word flies from every other mouth, and all eyes turn to me. Even Sam looks at me with disdain.

  Pastor Jim points his finger at me. He says, “You would have just killed Beethoven.”

  They all seem like they are a hundred miles away, the black-and-white linoleum hypnotizing me, making my eyes blur. It is in this moment that I know I have to get out of here. I don’t belong. I will never belong. I have to find a way out.

  It’s late. I meet Sam behind the chapel stage. I think she’s excited about sneaking from her dorm.

  We don’t talk. I take her by the hand and lead her through the corridor to the baptism pool. It’s like this awesome, deep hot tub that they always have going because kids get baptized every Tuesday night.

  I don’t know why it’s Tuesdays and not Sundays, but during these services some kid who has found Jesus witnesses to us all and gives their life testimony. It usually isn’t all that interesting. Maybe they cry, or maybe they smile the whole time. But they always look so sure, with Jesus brand-new in them. They believe it all so through and through that they’re going to ask to be washed in the tears of Christ so their soul can be protected for eternity.