by Amber Hart
I blink back the tears as Grace walks away with Susan. I wish the flick of a wand could make everything better. I don’t mean to get emotional, but Grace’s magic makes me think about the real pain in my life.
It’s an ache that started ten years ago.
The day she disappeared.
No, disappeared is too generous a word. What I mean is: left.
The day my mom left.
Abandoned me. Abandoned us.
Dad seems truly happy with Susan, but he was in pain once, too. There were dark years before he met his new wife.
Susan treats Dad well, and she’s an awesome mom to Grace. She tried really hard in the beginning to be friends with me. She promised never to replace my mom. I remember her exact words: “Faith, I know that you already have a mom. I respect that. All I’m saying is that, if it’s okay with you, I would like to marry your father. We’ve talked about it. He wants to be a family. Would that be okay with you?”
I couldn’t say no to Susan. Not if she made Dad happy.
Anything was better than seeing him in pain.
Plus, Susan had the decency to ask me if it was okay. She didn’t need my permission, but she had enough consideration to ask. I think maybe I could like her if I actually gave her a chance. But I don’t give her a chance. I can’t.
I don’t let people in anymore. I never let them close enough to have a shot at seeing the real me. Pain is a strong enough sealant to close my heart.
My mom left when I was eight.
For drugs.
Ever since she left, I’ve had a serious fear of abandonment. Once she was gone, it was like Dad had left, too. He went to work, preached the Bible, paid the bills. He sat at the dinner table with me to eat, but he wasn’t really there. I’d catch him gazing at the wall, lost. A robot: pray, eat, go to bed. Repeat. He didn’t talk to me anymore. He was hurting. He thought it was his fault that Mom left. She was a preacher’s wife. Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen.
But it did. Dad tried to get her professional help, checked her into several clinics. It didn’t make a difference in the end. She still left. One thing remained: a ghost of a life, haunting.
I would hear Dad at night sometimes, crying. It broke my heart. I cried. Mom caused us so much pain. Her addiction broke her. And us, too.
Addiction is toxic, a drop of poison in pure water, tainting and infecting. It is awful how one tiny drop can ripple so far. The ripple is the worst. It reaches so much further than the original drop, and it lingers for a long time. Maybe forever. Dad and I are part of Mom’s ripple. She thought that by leaving she did us a favor. She reasoned that if she was gone, we would move on, be happy.
Wrong.
I was not left with happiness. I was left with abandonment issues. Big ones.
According to the shrink, fear of abandonment is called autophobia. It’s more specifically defined as a fear of loneliness. And it’s awful. Like the plague, eating me from the inside out, rotting my soul. I do not trust. I cannot trust. I will not trust. Anyone.
Except Melissa. Melissa was there when my mom wasn’t. She was two open arms, always constant, always welcoming. We carried each other. Her dad left her family at the same time. We’ve both experienced a heart tear. Together.
Melissa is sarcastic, edgy. But she has a true, loving heart. She accepts me. Flaws and all.
Melissa is safe.
Some people have places where they feel safe—a house, a car, maybe the park or the beach. Not me. My mind doesn’t work like that. I look for safety not in the world, but in the people around me. It’s a flaw, for sure. Because, honestly, most people are not safe. They seem good in the beginning, but they only hurt you in the end.
That’s the problem with autophobia. It makes me skeptical of everyone. What it comes down to is this: I’m afraid to know someone, really know them, because what if I end up loving them? Will they be like my mom? Will they leave me, too?
There is always a chance.
I cannot take that chance.
Instead, I go about my life being who everyone expects. Happy, predictable Faith.
Sometimes I want to step out of my own skin, watch it fall to the ground like a discarded hide. I did that once, two years ago, but I went about it the wrong way.
I was a sophomore. Dad had already married Susan. He had moved on. I felt abandoned, by him, by Mom. They lived their own lives, oblivious to the fact that I was miserable, decaying inside. So I stepped out. I started secretly going to college parties that Melissa’s older sister invited us to. At first it was about cute boys and dancing, but it turned into more. I started drinking. A lot.
Melissa drank, too, but not as much as me. My best friend assumed I’d be careful, that I’d know my limits because of what happened to my mom. She didn’t know how much I pushed the boundaries.
Then came drugs. I’d always wondered what was so great about them. What could possibly be so wonderful that family and everything else took a far distant second?
I needed to know.
So I tried them. It wasn’t what I expected. The drugs themselves were harsh. But their aftereffect drew me. Drugs made me numb. For once, I didn’t feel the pain of abandonment. I didn’t feel at all. Not anything.
I don’t know exactly when it got out of hand. I was in too deep for Melissa to help, suctioned by a cyclone too powerful for her to fight. She had to tell my dad.
That’s why I missed my junior year. I was in rehab.
Everyone except Melissa and my family thinks that I went on an international church mission. It sounds exciting. Travel the world; study in beautiful countries. Come back to a school where most people can only dream of doing something like that.
So many people envy me. If they only knew.
Green, green, green is our envy, volatile and vain.
Blue, blue, blue is my soul, withering and chained.
I kept up my relationship with Jason while I was in rehab. My dad gave me notes that Jason dropped off at the house. It was easier than explaining that there were no international addresses where he could send letters. Ink bled onto paper, sentiments too shallow to fill the envelope with anything of substance, anything worthwhile. The notes always talked about football or how the dance team wasn’t any good without me.
Even today, when things with Jason aren’t exactly exciting, I love that he stuck by me. True, he thought I was on a church retreat, but that’s not what matters. Point is that he didn’t leave me.
If I were strong, I would tell Jason the truth. But I’m a coward.
I should tell him about the parties. I should tell him that I cheated on him with college guys. I should admit that I got hooked on drugs, just like my mom. But I can’t. Only Melissa knows the real reason why Mom left.
My parents’ divorce was scandalous at first. Pastors are not supposed to divorce. But people got over it quickly.
I should tell Jason the truth. I should break up with him so he can be with someone more deserving. But I won’t. People expect me to be with Jason. I must keep up the façade, keep living the lie. I’m not a good person; I know that. But I can’t ruin my dad’s life. I’m not sure if my dad’s career, or heart, can take the hit of a divorce—and a wayward daughter. So I’m stuck, a pawn in a game I have no intention of winning.
Jason loves the fake me, anyway. He doesn’t know the real one. Is it fair to take the fake me, the one he fell in love with, away? And then there’s the piece of me that wants to keep Jason because he accepts my mask. It’s easier that way.
I fold the pain, bending it at precise angles until it fits into my pocket, always carrying it with me where no one can see. I’m done with drugs and alcohol. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t even like cigarettes.
Today, tonight, in my room, it all seems like a fading dream. I can’t believe I ever used drugs. Especially knowing so intimately the destruction they cause. I just wanted to forget the pain of Mom leaving. Terrible copout, I know. It will never happen again.
&
nbsp; Melissa keeps my secret. She’s the truest kind of friend. That’s why I can’t get mad at her for pushing me earlier, at the restaurant. She wants me to step out of my skin. The healthy way this time. Dress how I want to dress, date who I want to date. Melissa says that even though the drugs are gone, I’m still not free.
I don’t know what free is.
I imagine a bird, soaring, screeching.
Flap, flap, flap go its wings, batting the air like a child smacking bubbles.
Melissa wants me to say things like I did earlier, when I admitted that Diego is hot. It’s not that she loves the shock value; it’s that she loves me. She wants me to be happy.
I wonder if such a thing exists.
10
diego
My face is jacked.
I realize the next morning that there’s no way I can hide what happened. Mi padre is going to flip. Maybe if he hadn’t hidden my gun, none of this would have happened.
Maybe if I didn’t own a gun, life would be different.
Even after a shower, I still have dried blood on my lip, like a stain after eating cherries. I wet a washcloth with warm water and dab. It stings but I’ve had worse. The white washcloth comes away russet. Old blood. Soon it will be another old scar.
My bottom lip is split on the right side. Not bad enough for stitches, though. My left cheekbone is swollen and my right eye is turning purple, like a shadow hovers over it.
As if people don’t stare enough already.
Time for school. People will notice. The suspicions they already have about me, confirmed. Screw it. I don’t care.
As I leave the house, mi padre stops me.
“Ay, ay, ay, Diego. What happened?” he asks.
“Nothin’,” I say, brushing him off.
“No me mientas,” he replies.
“Fine,” I say. “I got in a fight. There, happy?”
I’m being sarcastic, obviously. But mi padre already knows what happened. What he’s really asking is not what, but why. And by whom.
He stares at me with hard eyes, eyes that have seen unspeakable misery.
“¿Por qué?”
“Because some jerk thought he could push me around. No big deal.”
“No más peleas.”
He wants me to stop fighting. Even though mi padre insists on speaking English in America, he slips up when he’s angry.
“Fine,” I say.
I hoist my bag on my shoulder and walk the back way to school. Javier told me about a new route last night when I filled him in on my fight with the MS-13 members. With any luck, they won’t be prowling these streets, as well—and Wink got the message that I don’t want to be a recruit.
I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it. Relaxation washes over me like hot oil, all of my worries slipping away. It’s a relief. I’m too wound up these days. Always watching my back. But that’s to be expected. I take another drag and watch the smoke float lazily into the sky.
Won’t you take me with you?
Cigarettes are my only addiction. Most people assume that I do drugs. Wrong. Even though I saw a lot in the business, I never touched the drugs. Literally. No dealing. No ingesting. No interest. I know a lot of people who got way too messed up. I’ve seen the damage drugs can do. That’s why I stick to cigarettes. Everybody has a poison, a vice. For some, it’s caffeine. For others, the hard kind, cocaine, heroin. For me, nicotine.
In the cartel, it was my job to make sure people stayed in line. Which basically meant that I made sure no one was pinching more than their share, that cartel members had extra protection for drop-offs, that debts were collected. I roughed up a lot of people. Came with the territory. I never hurt anybody too bad, though. I was one of the boss’s best fighters.
Some people are good with money, others with drugs. I’m good with my fists.
I am a weapon.
I am a monster.
It was hard at times. But I had to survive. On my street back home, the top killers weren’t heart attacks and cancer, like you hear about in America, but starvation and violence. There are always people who will say that joining a gang or a cartel isn’t the answer, but until they’re lying on a street corner starving or dying of a bullet wound, how can they know?
Joining a cartel was my only option, if I wanted to live and have my family taken care of. I would’ve done anything for mi familia. The cartel offered protection and food in my stomach. Two things I would not have lived to see eighteen without.
Today I try not to think about it too much. It is what it is. Sure, I wish things were different. But they’re not.
Inhaling the last drag of my cigarette, I stomp it out with my shoe. Oviedo High is a collection of large, multicolored brick buildings with lush green grass and a courtyard that looks more like a garden. The sparse clouds above are light gray charcoal caked onto a backdrop of sapphire. The sun shines brightly, swollen with arrogance, its rays like arms claiming all it can touch, blocking one whole side of the sky from being seen.
Javier calls me over to a picnic bench where he’s sitting with some of his amigos. I rest on the dead wood, as well.
“You look terrible,” Javier greets me.
“Thanks, man. You, too,” I say, hassling him. “At least I have an excuse.”
“You didn’t get into it with Faith’s novio, did you?” Luis asks.
For some reason, the thought of Faith makes me tense. I don’t show it, though.
“Nah,” I answer. “Just some pandilleros.”
“That sucks,” Luis replies. “At least with Faith, you would have a good reason to walk around lookin’ like that.”
“Good reason?” Rodolfo asks.
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t say yes if you had the chance,” Luis replies.
Rodolfo laughs. “You’re right. I probably would walk around with a banged-up face for her.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “ ’Cause I don’t see it.”
Faith’s outside appearance is vague to me. It’s the inside that holds the spark. I mean, yesterday, what was she wearing? Some fluffy blouse and a skirt that looked too big. Maybe she doesn’t normally look like that.
“Watch the dance team. Then you’ll see it,” Javier says.
Ramon joins in. “Faith Watters is muy caliente. I bet she only dresses the way she does because of her father.”
“What, he picks her clothes for her?” I ask.
“No, man. I mean ’cause he’s the preacher.”
I glance at my cousin for confirmation. “You’re messin’ with me,” I say.
Luis busts up laughing.
“You should see your face, ese,” Luis says.
A pastor’s daughter?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Javier.
“I didn’t think you wanted to date her.” Javier grins.
“You should have told me.”
“Don’t worry,” Rodolfo says. “She will never say yes.”
He’s probably not trying to make me angry, but he does. Why do things have to be like that? Who says I can’t get a girl like Faith Watters? Not that I want to.
“She might say yes,” I counter.
“Oh no.” Javier gives me a look. “Don’t waste your time. The sky has a better chance of falling than of you dating Faith.”
“You’re probably right,” I say. “It’s just messed up.”
And now thanks to Javier, I can’t stop wondering what Faith looks like in her dance uniform. No amount of me telling myself she’s a pastor’s daughter makes it better.
“A pastor’s daughter,” I mumble, and shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
“All the better,” Rodolfo says. “A challenge. Like forbidden fruit.”
Forbidden is not a good way to describe something to me. I love a good challenge. And I do not believe anything is forbidden. Locked up tight, maybe. But not forbidden.
“Forbidden is lookin’ pretty good today,” Luis says.
I look up in time to see Faith with h
er blond friend. My peer helper is wearing a red blouse and black shorts that are practically knee-length. It’s not that her outfit is sexy or anything; it’s just that red is definitely her color.
As she walks close, my heart breaks through my sternum and beats on my skin like a hammer.
Breathe.
My lungs refuse to cooperate, like a disobedient child.
Breathe.
And then she’s gone.
11
faith
Diego’s face is busted. Purples and browns and pinks and blues all blur into one another, creating a painting of abstract life—an image of anger, of survival in a bleak, hostile world.
One quick peek at him in the courtyard gave me one huge glimpse into Diego’s life outside school. I’m not sure if I should ask if he’s okay or ignore the bruises. Which is worse, acting like I care or acting like I don’t?
Tough. I realize in that moment that I honestly want to know if he’s all right.
I’m not sure what to expect from Diego today. He acted like I didn’t exist when I sat near him in psychology yesterday, and then he gave me the cold shoulder the rest of the day. Now his face is a mess; plus I’m more than a little embarrassed about calling him hot. But at the same time, I’m not. It felt good to step out of my own skin. Even if it was only for a moment.
Ever-changing like a chameleon, blending in all the same.
I do, however, know exactly what to expect from Jason. My boyfriend is annoyed that I complimented another guy, especially in front of his friends. I don’t understand the big deal. It’s not like he doesn’t find other girls attractive. I don’t get bent out of shape.
People like me cannot allow the mask to slip. I won’t let it happen again.
I wait for Diego in front of the guidance office, occasionally scanning the halls for his arrival. Then I see him. He’s wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that sets off his smoky-amber skin.
Simple.
Striking.
He is fluidity in every move. He is a boy with eyes like hope, with scars that tell stories, with muscles born of a hard life. It’s plain to see, so long as you care to look.
I decide not to comment on his face. If he wants to talk about it, he’ll tell me. Plus, I don’t like the cocky expression he’s sporting, like he knows that I think he’s hot and now he’s going to use it against me.
