Get Rocked

by Tabatha Vargo

  It wasn’t my fault I’d used the churchyard as a cut through or that I’d stepped into some paint that ruined my favorite shoes. Who would’ve known there were people inside the church that late and that they’d come out at exactly that moment to catch me beside the church, trying to wipe the paint from my shoes?

  “It won’t happen again,” I said stiffly.

  She nodded at me and then smiled.

  “Faith?” the pastor asked from behind her.

  I hadn’t even noticed he was there. He was a big man, taller than me by an inch or two, and from the way he towered over her, I assumed he knew it. His black dress pants were perfectly creased and his tie was neatly tied. I’d never learned how to tie a tie in all my life, but the shit looked hard. Salt-and-pepper hair dotted the sides and back of his head, leaving a bald spot on the top that attracted the overhead light.

  I looked back at the angel in front of me. Her name was Faith. It was a good name for her. I didn’t know much about the meaning of faith, but something told me she was the epitome of the definition.

  “Yes, Daddy?” She shrank in front of him.

  And then it all made sense. The pastor’s daughter—somehow she became ten times more appealing. I’m not sure what it was about untouchable girls, but it was human nature to want something you couldn’t have. The odds of me bagging a preacher’s daughter were slim to none, but I’d never cared much about odds.

  She went into herself at the sight of him. I didn’t think she could get any smaller, but I was wrong. He must’ve been a hell of a strict man. The poor girl probably didn’t have much of a life. It was obvious she’d never seen a fashion magazine since she had no sense of style. The sad-looking skirt said it all. She was entirely too pretty to be dressed like an Amish chick.

  “I think it’s time you came back in,” he said as he looked over at me and gave me fake smile.

  His low voice spoke volumes. He didn’t want his daughter anywhere near me. I thought it was funny. I started thinking that maybe if I flirted hard enough, he’d release me and tell my probation officer that I did everything I was supposed to.

  She turned back to me and smiled. I couldn’t help myself. I winked and gave her my grin I knew the girls liked.

  “It was nice meeting you, Faith. I hope I get to see more of you.”

  If looks could kill, the funeral home down the road would be wiping my ass and gutting me. Her father wasn’t happy with me and I was just fine by that. I wasn’t a huge fan of his nonstop blabbing either.

  The front door of the church slammed after he ushered her back in. I laughed softly to myself as I lit another cigarette and relaxed. Not much later, the people started leaving the church and going to their cars.

  I didn’t bother calling my mom to come and get me. I’d already caused her enough shit as it was. The least I could do was let her relax for the rest of the night. So after having the preacher sign my paper, I set off for home on foot.

  I hadn’t really had to walk anywhere since I’d bought my old Mustang when I was sixteen. Thankfully, my mom didn’t ask where I’d gotten the money since it took me months of selling white gutter glitter to afford it. Selling cocaine at sixteen had gotten me quite a bit of shit, but nothing as good as my sixty-nine Mustang. It looked like shit but ran like a champ. At least it did until I got stupid and blew up the fucking thing racing it.

  I was halfway down the road when my mom pulled over and picked me up.

  “You didn’t have to walk, Jimmy. I told you I’d be there.”

  I’d always loved it when she called me Jimmy. My name was James, but she’d taken it upon herself when I first came to her to give me a nickname. At twelve years old, it was a nice change, just like her home had been. Being moved from one foster home to another meant living in some pretty shady places. The moment I walked into her house, I felt like I was home.

  She looked over at me with tired eyes. The new pain medicine she was on was really taking its toll on her. Right after I was sent to her, she started having awful pains in her legs and lower back. She went to a different doctor every month, but no one could ever tell her what was wrong. It was the fifth doctor that finally diagnosed her with multiple sclerosis.

  Over the years, she’d gotten worse. Her vision was wearing down and there were some days when she had problems moving. I was there to help her out as much as I could. She hated the help, but she needed it.

  It was almost as if we were perfect for each other. I was an unwanted foster child who was dumped in foster home after foster home, and she was a woman who was unable to have kids. No one wanted me. Once she was diagnosed with MS, she needed me. It worked.

  I could still remember the first time I’d called her mom. I got in trouble at school and the principal called her in. I’d introduced her as my mom in his office that day and the look of pure happiness on her face filled me with joy. I knew in that moment that calling her Mom had effectively erased her memory of all the bad things I’d gotten mixed up in since I moved in with her. It stuck from that point on. She called me Jimmy and I called her mom. We worked. We understood each other.

  “I know, but I knew you weren’t feeling good when I left earlier. I have two feet and I could use the exercise.” I playfully patted at my stomach.

  “Yeah, you’re such a fatty. Who wants a six pack when you can have eight?” She joked as she reached over and poked my stomach. “So how was the church thing?”

  “It was okay—lots of praying and preaching. I painted over the graffiti and cut the grass. That’s pretty much all they needed from me today. Luckily, I don’t have to go back until Sunday.”

  “Good.” She smiled as she worked the car into the driveway.

  I helped her into the house and then waited until she was comfortable on the couch. Her black-and-gray streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun, giving a good view of her brown eyes and clear skin. Besides a few wrinkles and the dark circles that had developed under her eyes, you’d never know she was almost fifty.

  I pulled a throw off the back of our scruffy plaid couch and laid it over her legs. Once she was all set up with her remote, I went into the kitchen and cooked a small dinner for the two of us. It was late, but I was starving.

  We spent the rest of our night watching our favorite sitcoms in the living room. The chair I sat in had seen better days, but it kept me from falling to sleep since there was a spring digging into my back. Our house and furniture wasn’t the best, but it was home and it was ours.

  When I first came to live with Mom, Ms. Janet, she had a really nice place and I enjoyed living in such richness. There were fine furnishings and the room she’d given me was huge and covered in all things sports. All that changed after her husband, Mr. Charles, died. We moved into something small on the opposite side of town.

  Mom hated the new place, but I didn’t care either way. If anything, I was more comfortable in the bad parts of town. The kids around our new house didn’t look down on me the way the others did. I got in more trouble in school since more trouble was readily available, but I was happier.

  The following Sunday, after taking out the trash and digging out a flower bed for Sister Francis, I went to the single church bathroom to clean my hands and face. I swiped at my pants with my dirt-covered hand before grabbing the doorknob. After pushing the door open, I ran right into Faith. Except this time she was sitting on the floor with her face down and her fist clutched to her chest as if her life depended on it. Her long skirt was hiked up over her knees, exposing a long, shapely leg.

  I’m not sure what I’d expected to be lurking under that god-awful skirt, but I surely hadn’t expected a set of gorgeous legs. A perfectly shaped thigh worked its way up under her skirt. I couldn’t help myself. My eyes followed its path and begged the skirt to go away.

  She moved and the bathroom light shifted across her leg, allowing me to see they weren’t as perfect as I’d originally thought. The creamy skin was slightly tarnished with thin scars and welts. One thing I k
new about was welts. One of my foster dad’s favorite things to do was pick the perfect switch on a tree and use it on me. I’d gone to sleep many nights with welts that looked like that asshole’s belt, his perfect switch, or better yet, his shoe.

  My eyes were stuck on her legs as I pushed the door farther. Tear-filled eyes looked up at me, and she gasped. She quickly adjusted her skirt and swiped at the wet paths on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I leaned over and snatched a tissue from the tissue box on the counter and handed it to her.

  I bent down on my knees to look directly into her sad brown eyes, and it felt as if a large hand was squeezing my heart. I wasn’t a naturally emotional guy, but pulling the wings off of a butterfly wasn’t my thing and this girl was hiding wings, just a different kind.

  “Are you okay?” I asked softly.

  She attempted to smile, but it never reached her eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m okay—just having a moment,” she said with an uncomfortable smirk.

  She reached up with her free hand and nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, while her other hand remained clutched to her chest. A brown strand of hair escaped, and without realizing what I was doing, I tucked it behind her ear and out of her face again. She jerked at my touch and my heart shifted in my chest. It was the strangest feeling.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  I had the strongest urge to protect her.

  There was once a little girl named Emily who I shared a foster home with. She was so sweet and small. I was with her for three months and during those three months, I’d been her protector. Faith reminded me so much of a grown-up Emily.

  She opened her mouth to talk, but before she could answer, her father was at the door. His eyes beat into her and again, she shrank in his presence.

  “That’s enough playing around, Faith. Sister Francis is looking for you.”

  His eyes skimmed my face in aggravation. I turned my attention back to Faith, who was standing and adjusting her skirt. The way we were sitting alone in the bathroom couldn’t have looked good, but I didn’t care. I knew we were being innocent and that’s all that mattered to me.

  “See you around,” she said as she stepped around me and out of the bathroom.

  The pastor looked at me again and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. His lips tightened in disapproval before he stepped away, letting the bathroom door slam. The noise seemed to shake the whole church.

  I wasn’t sure what it was, but something was off with that man and his daughter. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew a screwed-up family when I saw one. No matter how perfect the preacher pretended to be, something about him rubbed me the wrong way.

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” My dad quoted the Bible as he put his belt back on.

  I was sure it was his favorite part of the Good Book since he said it to me every day. It was easy for him since every day he found a reason to take his belt to me.

  I clutched the silver cross lying against my chest. I’d had it my entire life. My mom’s mom gave it to me when I was six and I’d never taken it off. It was usually hidden beneath my clothing, and it made me feel safe.

  I used to pretend when I was younger that I could hide my soul in the cross so no one could ever take it away from me. My dad spent my childhood instilling in me the dangers of having a tainted soul and having it ripped away by the devil. It was my biggest fear. So when I was afraid that I’d done wrong or that something was going to hurt me, I’d imagine I was pouring my soul into the cross and I’d be guarded by something holy and good. It was how I made it through—my survival mechanism.

  Years later, knowing it was impossible to tuck your soul away inside a silver charm, I still held strong to my cross and it still warmed my palm every time I felt like things were too much, when I thought I’d just about met my limit on the things I could take.

  Once my dad left the room, I reached down and ran my fingers over my thigh. The thick welts were already starting to form. My skin felt hot to the touch and sore, but getting whipped with Daddy’s belt didn’t hurt anymore—not like it used to anyway. Instead of crying because of the pain, I’d shed the occasional hidden tear because of how degraded I felt.

  It started when I was six—he caught me in a lie about eating an extra piece of candy—and it continued over the years. I never lied again from that moment on. It was beaten into me and it remained there. Lying was a sin, and if I lied, I was a sinner and I was going to burn in hell.

  I was seventeen and afraid of any and everything, but mostly afraid of getting a spanking from my daddy like some elementary school child. How sad was I? No other girls my age even had to think about it. They were out living their lives, leaning and growing the proper way—by experience.

  My home life was anything but exciting, which was why I almost hated going home after school each day. I suppose it was also the reason I’d do stupid things like burst out in tears randomly in the church bathroom. It wasn’t the first time I’d done it, but it was the first I’d been caught.

  I couldn’t believe I’d done it again. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t, but I felt like I was disappearing. It was as if every time his belt met my skin, it was erasing me. When I felt that way, the only way I could feel alive was to pinch myself, or better yet, clutch my cross and cry my eyes out in the bathroom.

  It didn’t make any sense to me. Crying, feeling any emotion in general, hurt and felt good at the same time. It was like I couldn’t help it. I rarely did it anywhere but my bedroom at night. Only then could I have silent tears on my cheeks without anyone knowing about them.

  Everyone had a breakdown every now and again. At least that’s what I’d tell myself. I already felt like I belonged nowhere, that I was different from everyone else. Telling myself everyone else did it, too, made me feel a lot better.

  Deep down I knew I had a depression problem and I needed to talk to someone, but what would my mother and father think if I asked to go to a therapist? They’d have me at the altar and have the entire congregation praying over me. Healing was God’s job. That’s what my dad would say to me. So instead of asking for help and risking another beating or having myself embarrassed in front of everyone, I hid it.

  I usually locked the door. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to not double-check the lock before I let myself go, but when the new boy walked in on me my humiliation was on the severe side. I doubted he knew what I was in there doing, but still it wasn’t fun. It’s not like normal people sit around and cry for no reason. I was probably the only person in the world who did something so stupid. Not to mention, the last thing I wanted him to see were the ugly welts from that afternoon’s “lesson” about obeying my mother.

  I skipped the movies the following Saturday night, but somehow Amanda talked me into going off with her, Kevin, and his cousin after church on Sunday. I had school the following day, but after being busted in the bathroom, sobbing like an escaped mental patient, I thought sneaking out and getting a little freedom was becoming necessary.

  It was the first time in my life that I’d done something so careless, but I was about to break. I was getting the belt regardless of what I did these days, so why not at least give him a good reason. I ran that thought through my mind as I waited for Amanda to quietly pull up outside.

  When she finally came, I climbed out of my window like a juvenile delinquent. The windowsill dug into my stomach and pinched the soft skin beneath my belly button. My heart was already in my throat from fear, but the windowsill pressing into my chest didn’t help matters.

  I stretched my legs out more until finally I could feel the grass beneath my tippy toes. Pushing up with my palms, I slid the rest of the way to the ground. My beige sweater snagged on a piece of cracked wood on the window frame and it ripped a tiny hole.

  I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I never thought in a million years that I’d actually sneak out with Amanda, but I needed to get away. Things wer
e getting worse emotionally and I needed a break away from my life, or the lack thereof. Even if it was just going on a stupid drive for two hours with two strangers and my best friend… that was enough. I wasn’t stuck in my house, or school, or church, and that alone felt amazing.

  I slid my window down quietly and waited for any sounds from inside my house. My heart remained jammed in my throat as I imagined my mom or dad bursting into my room to catch me in the act of breaking the rules.

  “Come on, Faith,” Amanda whispered from behind me.

  I ran behind her to a waiting car, my simple white tennis shoes sinking into the damp grass. Without thinking twice, I jumped into the back seat. My mouth was dry and I could barely swallow. The fear of getting caught was so strong and I was getting about sick and tired of feeling afraid all the time.

  My stomach rolled with nerves and I began to shake as if I were freezing. No one around me seemed to notice. Once the car pulled away from my curb, I was afraid I’d go into a full panic attack and have to be rushed to the emergency room. I was thankful when the tense feeling slowly started wear off.

  It was dark out, so dark that I couldn’t see the guy in the seat next to me. That alone was frightening in itself, but I trusted Amanda. She was trouble, but I knew she’d never do anything to put me in actual danger. At least I hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Amanda said over the headrest of the passenger’s seat, her eyes wild and excited.

  She didn’t wait for my response. Instead, she flopped around in her seat and leaned over to kiss who I could only guess was Kevin.

  Again, I looked over at the guy in the seat next to me. Occasionally, some light from outside would flash and I’d actually see him and not just his silhouette.

  He was a big guy, much bigger than my dad, and in the darkness, I couldn’t tell if he was kind of chunky or really muscled. It wasn’t until Kevin pulled up to a red light in the middle of town that I was able to get a good look. His dark hair was buzzed short and his eyes were so dark they blended in with the car around him, which made him look somewhat ghostly. I was only mildly freaked out by his total silence.