It’s sick how all these kids are afraid of dying now, afraid of a hell they didn’t think about before coming here. The kids who have been saved, well, they watch while this other one gets dunked by Pastor Jim and comes up all sputtering and clean. The other kids raise their arms up over their heads like they’re at a rock concert, but I want to yell at them to stop being so stupid. They’re all a bunch of fakers anyway.
I don’t want to witness or testify or ask for my soul to be saved and I sure as hell don’t want skinny Pastor Jim to be touching me with his skeleton hands in the hot tub while I’m all wet and he’s all wet. But I have no problem doing that with Sam.
“Come on,” I say, leading her down into the water.
She gets all goofy and shy and scared, like she’s not sure we should be doing this, but I take off my top and she changes her mind. She walks in after me, still wearing her whole uniform.
“Ugh, it’s lukewarm,” she says, and I laugh. But the word strikes me. Lukewarm. Pastor Jim told us how God welcomes the hot and the cold but spits the lukewarm out of his mouth.
“Are you hot or cold?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“For God. Hot or cold?”
“Neither, I guess. Stop being weird.”
She wades over and puts her arms around me. While she’s kissing me, all I can think about is that Bible passage Pastor Jim mentioned.
“I’m the cold,” I say.
Here I am in this baptismal tank, in a chapel where other kids commit their on-fire souls to God, with a girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing, letting her go as far as she wants. All I can think about is how cold I am.
Chapter Seven
After the night in the baptismal tank, I decide I’m not that into Sam anymore. She isn’t a great kisser and she’s too shy to go all the way.
Bonus—I discovered how easy it is to sneak out. No one is really watching the kids that late at night. Most of them are too scared to leave their rooms, but I’m not.
As soon as lights go out, I make Mouse promise not to tattle and then sneak down the corridor to the outer doors. I hike up my skirt and make a run for it, climbing the chain-link fence at the back of the property and slipping into the trees.
The night is cool and damp. Early fall. When I’m outside, I feel so much more like me. Other humans need all the comfort and convenience of malls and houses and beds and stuff like that. I just want to be alone with myself in the wild. Maybe I’m meant for another time, another place. Maybe it’s here that’s the problem and not me. Maybe it’s the when of it all that makes me stand out so much.
I feel powerful as sticks crunch under my feet, as I step over logs and feel my muscles loosen from being so wound up. I think a lot of girls would be scared to be alone at night in the bushes, but not me. I’m never scared.
Once I feel like I’m far enough away, I cut a line toward the highway to catch a ride.
It’s not long before two guys in a Mustang stop to pick me up. I get in, and one of them hands me a beer.
“I dig the uniform,” the less-good-looking one says.
I smile at them and can see the driver eyeing me in the rearview mirror. I sit back and relax into my seat.
“Where’s the party?” I ask, and the guys laugh.
“Our place,” says the driver. “You’ll see.”
They’re right. The house is at the end of a long farm road and is crawling with people. There are cars all over the property and groups of girls and guys drinking and fighting and partying in every room.
The driver tells me his name, Rob, and leads me by the hand to the kitchen. He gets me another beer.
A guy offers us some white powder and I snort it right off his hand. I don’t even care what it is. Rob doesn’t want any, and then I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have snorted it because he’s pretty hot and he’s older and kind of nice so far and I don’t want him to think I’m a stupid kid. It’s bad enough that I’m wearing the uniform. Then I get even more nervous when I find out his band is playing at the party, and he’s the guitar player.
But soon I don’t care, because the drugs start to kick in. Rob’s playing with his band and it sounds good and he keeps smiling at me and there’s just something about him with his clear, open blue eyes and nice smile and I just almost can’t take it. I have to get some air.
I go out back. People are hanging out on the porch, and some are chilling around a bonfire. I walk over and stare at it. I see faces in the fire looking back at me.
Time stops.
I can see every atom and molecule at once and then nothing at all. I panic for a second, thinking I’m going blind, but then my sight comes back to me, more brilliant than ever. I can see tiny bugs crawling through the grass toward the fire, like some mass insect suicide.
As I’m watching, I see something a few inches larger moving toward me from the fire. I walk closer and see that it’s a salamander. I pick it up, expecting it to disappear, but it’s there and it’s in my hand and it’s pretty big and I don’t know where it came from. It couldn’t have been in the fire.
Then someone says, “Hey, does that girl have a lizard, or am I just tripping?”
And then a bunch of people are looking at it and touching it and all of a sudden I start to panic a little. I’m afraid all of them touching it is going to hurt it or kill it somehow, like how touching a butterfly can kill it because it loses its special flying dust or whatever. Then I’m laughing because that’s a funny idea, and I start thinking about angels and how they can fly and if they’re covered in dust and you see one then you shouldn’t touch it in case you kill it. Then I stop laughing because I start thinking about the nature of the universe and how nothing is what it seems and maybe angels don’t have wings and don’t look like people and instead come in the form of salamanders. This salamander could be an angel, and all these people are trying to touch it and kill it.
I back away, shaking my head. “No, you can’t touch angels or they die.”
“What did she say? That chick is screwed up, man. She’s all talking about angels.”
“It’s mine!” I yell, and I run with the salamander to the road.
I need to find a safe place for it, but everywhere I look there is a group of people who could hurt it. I just can’t let it go into the ditch because that’s an awful place for an angel to have to live and I haven’t figured out what it means and what if it’s lonely or scared or what if it comes looking for me and gets run over, and soon I’m crying.
I’m just sitting in the road and I’m crying and I can’t stop. I can’t breathe. The salamander is just sitting in my hand, looking at me, my tears falling onto its iridescent skin.
I cry because the salamander has no place to go. I cry because it’s in love with the world and wants to experience it, but the world doesn’t love it back. The world just wants to touch it, to molest it until it can’t feel anymore.
“Hey there. Hey now. Hey you.” A soft voice is beside me. It’s Rob. “Want to come inside? You can bring your lizard.”
“It’s an angel.”
“You can bring your angel too.”
I turn to thank him, and then everything goes black.
Chapter Eight
I stay with Rob and his friends for a couple of days. They’re actually really nice. They drink a lot, but none of them make a move on me, and Rob doesn’t expect anything. He drops me off in town at the mall and tells me to call him if I need help.
The mall in town is pretty small, and there are not many people there at 10:30 AM. My clothes are kind of ratty because I haven’t been at school for…how long has it been? I wish my hair wasn’t so greasy and that I didn’t have so many bruises from wandering in the bush and falling down at the party. I should be way more upset about it, but it’s helping me look pitiful.
At first I just walk into the food court looking like I am lost, but I know exactly where I am. I really want a hot dog. I mean, a hot dog and a coke is about all I need
in the universe right now. A hot dog and a coke will solve all my problems. A hot dog and a coke, and I can die satisfied.
So I sit down near the yellow counter of the hot-dog joint and watch its rolling seduction of wieners. I just sit there salivating over it.
When I know the cashier is watching, I dig into my pockets and pull out my ninety-seven cents in change and count it out all slow. When I tally it up and then look at the menu board for the price, I almost squeeze out a tear. I walk up to the counter and pretend to be a shy girl down on her luck. Only part of that isn’t true. That is the key to a good lie. Remember Budapest? You have to have something true to cling to.
When the cashier—Betty, according to her name tag—walks over to me, I give her a little smile, and I can see from her face and the downturn of her chin that it is working, and she is feeling sorry for me. I look from the drink cups to the wieners to my fistful of change and back again.
“How much are the wieners?” I ask quietly.
She says, “A couple of bucks.”
I look in my fist and say, “Oh. Can I have a small coke then?”
She says sure and gets it for me, and when I count out my change she looks over her shoulder and says, “You know what? It’s on the house. Would you like a hot dog too, honey?”
I say, “No thanks, I couldn’t.”
She says, “Oh, you look like you need it.”
I say, “Thank you so much. You are so nice.” I get my hot dog with extra mustard and my coke, and I don’t pay a cent. I wish I could say I feel bad about it, but I’m just so hungry. Add it to the list of my sins, No Hope Academy. It must be getting pretty long by now.
After a few days of bumming around, I head home to Dad and Sheila’s place (I’ve already stopped thinking of it as being my house too). But I’m there just long enough to clean up and grab some things. I know if Sheila comes home and sees me there will be screaming. And if Dad comes home and sees me there will be disappointment. I can’t handle either of those things right now.
I go into the bathroom and turn off the light, because I don’t want to see myself in the mirror with my dirty face and dirty hands and dirty teeth and dirty insides. I turn on the shower full blast and take off my clothes.
I open the shower curtain and step inside, but I don’t get under the spray right away. I stop just shy of the water and watch it go down the drain all clean and fresh. I guess I don’t want to mess it up because I just stand there shivering outside the warmth in the strange wind that rises up from the rush of falling water. The warm meets the cold and I get all goose-pimply and I want so bad to step under the spray, but I don’t let myself.
I feel the dirtiness on me, in me, and I know it won’t matter how clean I get on the outside. I’m always going to be dirty to people like Sheila and the No Hopers.
I finally step under the stream, and it is so hot I want to jump away. But I don’t. I let it scald my scalp, my face, my arms, my chest, my legs, my feet. I take the loofa from the shelf and scrub. It hurts, but I don’t care.
I dress in fresh clothes, layering them so I can go a while without having to come back. Then I go to the kitchen for supplies. I put some Spaghettios and a can opener and a knife in my backpack.
I hear a sound behind me as I’m digging through the cupboards, and there is Sheila. She’s looking at me like I am some alien creature. Then Dad walks in.
Suddenly it is just a chorus of voices, everyone getting louder and louder except me, because I never have anything to say.
“Jane!” Sheila shrieks. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
They always ask me what I have to say for myself, but there is never an answer, and they don’t understand that. What do they want me to say? That I’m bad and inconsiderate?
I look at Dad, and he just looks so disgusted with me.
“I know how rotten I am inside,” I mumble.
“What?” he asks, his face registering concern.
Sheila jumps in before I can answer him. “You think life is this big party. Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re nothing special, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”
“Sheila—” Dad starts, but she cuts him off.
“No, John! You don’t know what she puts me through with her late nights and the drugs and God knows what else. She has no respect.”
“What do you want me to do, Sheila? She’s my daughter.”
Great, now I’ve caused another fight. It seems like everywhere I go, I cause trouble for people. My dad isn’t a bad guy, and he deserves to be happy. The problem is me.
“I don’t want you to keep doing this,” I say softly, and they both turn to look at me.
“What does that mean?” Sheila snaps.
“Fighting over me,” I say.
“Jane—” Dad starts.
Sheila cuts him off again. “Oh, don’t worry, Jane. We won’t. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done with you. You’re not welcome here.”
“Sheila!” Dad shouts, but I’m already out the door and don’t hear what comes next. I don’t want to. It’s clear that I need to go. I have no one and nothing. There’s really only one thing left to do.
I run out the front door, and my stomach hurts so bad from eating so little that I feel like I am going to puke. Then I get very dizzy and actually do end up heaving. I only manage to spew a bit of yellow sludge on the front step.
I’m scared because I am sure, certain beyond all doubt now, that God does not exist. So if he’s not the one punishing me, then I’m doing it to myself. I wish my dad would just forget me. His life would be so much easier. I wonder if I will be able to forget myself.
Chapter Nine
This girl Maggie I met at a party has a place near the highway where she says I can crash, so I walk there with all my stuff in a garbage bag. It takes a couple of hours because it’s so late at night and there aren’t any cars wanting to pick me up.
Maggie is only seventeen too, but she has her own place because she got some money from a car accident that made her lose a big part of her calf muscle. She says it hurts a lot, and I bet it does. Part of me envies her having her own apartment, but I don’t think I’d want a scar that big on my leg. I don’t say this to her because I don’t want her to kick me out.
There are a couple other people staying here too, and the only place left to sleep is this big closet near the front door that is pretty deep and carpeted all the way in. Maggie loans me a pillow, and I use my hoodie and jean jacket as a blanket. When I shut the folding doors from the inside, the light disappears one sliver at a time. It is pretty neat lying in here while everyone comes and goes. I just watch their feet and try to sleep.
One night this guy they call Newfie comes over to Maggie’s with some good acid, which he gives me for free after I promise to kiss him. I do, and it isn’t so bad, even though he does have ashtray breath.
After everyone is asleep or passed out, I sit on the small third-floor balcony and look out over the parking lot that spans the housing complex and the bar next door. I swiped some bubble-blowing solution from the dollar store earlier, along with some Tootsie Rolls that I kept for my dinner. It’s freezing out, but I don’t care. I dip the wand into the pink bottle and blow.
Pop. Try again. Pop. Go slower. The bubbles look amazing as they grow. They start as film and then grow when I push air at them, and then they come together in these perfect spheres and suddenly I am remembering math lessons that I kind of miss because I’m not in school. I start to feel bad so I blow another bubble.
I blow so many bubbles that the entire neighborhood is blanketed in them. I don’t know if it’s the cold or that it’s nearly dawn or if I’m just tripping out, but the bubbles stay put. They aren’t going away. They cover cars and cement and awnings and balconies and bikes and yard toys.
Pretty soon I run out of bubble solution, so I get some dish detergent and shampoo and use that, and the bubbles come out bigger, thinner, grayer, meaner, harder, like bubbles on a coke bing
e or bubbles that have to sleep in closets or bubbles without real moms. The sun is rising and all the colors wash over the bubbles and they change from silver to blue to red to orange to green and back again.
As I blow them, each one carries away an image of my face, mouth pursed, hair wild, a bruise on my cheek, like I am caught in some perpetual mirror screaming, “No!”
All the bubbles float down from the sky onto the sleeping world, each one filled with my breath, a piece of me. I watch as the world stirs and the first people shuffle groggily from their front doors to get into their cars to go to work. They are expecting to see the same old gray world they always see and to meet the same gray day that never changes.
But today is a day covered in bubbles, and so their faces are soft and they all smile, and some look up to where I sit on the balcony, and some see me and some recognize that the day of bubbles is my day. My gift to the world.
The next day I steal several boxes of Gravol from the drugstore. I see them on the shelf and I just start shoving the boxes into my hoodie. I tell myself that I didn’t plan this, that I’m not going to do anything stupid, but I steal them anyway. Some part of me knows what I am going to do. Even the dog sitting across the street staring at me knows. I’m not sure if it is a real dog, because I shoved all the pills into my mouth a few hours ago before I could change my mind and it might be a bad thing because I keep seeing dogs everywhere and they all have these bright blue eyes that follow me.
They’re not mean dogs, but they don’t blink, and I don’t know if I have ever seen so many in one day before. It’s like all of nature is watching me. When I walk down the street the bushes pull away like they are recoiling from a flame, and I swear I can hear them breathing out oxygen. I wish I had a friend with me for this. The bushes and the docks and the rocks and the raindrops and the clouds and the sun and the trees and the grass all know the truth about me and what I am doing.
Learning Seventeen Page 3
