Beneath the Skin

by Kyla Stone

  “Sidney?” Dr. Yang asks. “Are you with us?”

  I blink. They’re both staring at me. “What? I said I don’t know. Go fret about your chipping nail polish or something else equally important.”

  The rest of the session drags on. I half-ass whatever questions they slow pitch me. When the bell rings, I bolt from the room. I grab my books from my locker and head to my next class. I’m in zone-mode, no thinking, no eye contact, just survive the damn day.

  11

  Officially, I have study hall last period. I usually cram in the rest of my homework so I’m done by the time I have to go to work, then head home to clean and cook and take care of the boys. And Ma. But Frank’s home. They’ve been playing house all week. Happy drinking. It’s only a matter of time before happy drinking turns into the other kind.

  But today there’s too many people at school I’d rather not run into, so I head to work early. Bill’s usually pretty good about my hours. Sometimes I catch him watching me, and there’s something sad and pensive in his eyes. I hate it, but he hasn’t fired me yet, so I endure it.

  “Great timing,” Bill says when I get there. “Brianna’s kid got sick. She’s not gonna be able to cover her shift. I was going to call Jessie, but here you are. Can you handle it?”

  I make a face. He wants me to wait the tables. More interaction with the customers. More chances to screw it up. Again. “You trust me?”

  His laugh comes from somewhere deep in his gut. “Nope. Not even a little.”

  I can’t help it. He wrings a tight smile out of me. “Okay, then. Glad we’re on the same page. I’ll try my best not to spit on anybody’s food.”

  He pats my shoulder. “That’s all I’m asking for, kid.”

  I tie on Brianna’s apron, make sure I’ve got my pad and pens with ink, and clock in.

  I work for two hours, serving and bussing a few dozen tables. I don’t dump food in anyone’s lap or yell at unruly toddlers. I’ve made almost sixty bucks in tips when the front bell jingles. Brianna comes in, all smiles and perfect blonde pigtails. Her husband must have come home early to take over the sick-kid duties. Bill gives her a lot of shifts because she can work the bar. Plus, she’s perky and bouncy, the old guys love her. Unlike me, the sullen smart-ass.

  I jerk off my apron and clock out as soon as I see her car pull into the gravel parking lot. Another car pulls in right behind her, a black, mud-crusted truck. Damn it all to hell.

  I watch through the glass front door as Frank, Ma and her swollen belly, and my brothers all topple out of the truck. My gut tightens. Frank comes here a lot when he’s home, but it’s usually to throw back some beers with the boys after dark. Never with the family. Never when I’m here.

  Frank strides through the front door, a huge grin on his face and a Coors already in one hand. “Where’s Bill?” he hollers. “Where’s the best linebacker the Wildcats ever had?”

  Three or four men at the bar spin on their barstools and greet Frank with handshakes and claps on the back. One of them is Hector Gonzales, dressed in his starched blue police uniform. I think he’s supposed to be off-duty to drink, but he’s not the kind of cop that lets regulations cramp his style. He played football too, a tight end or something, but wasn’t good enough to get a scholarship for it. He’s one of Frank’s main poker buddies.

  Bill comes out and Frank pulls him into a bear hug. They all start in on the ’98 state championship, the year the Wildcats nearly went all the way. They can jaw on about their glory days for hours. The more alcohol buzzing through their veins, the more glory to go around. And they all love Frank. He’s loud and fun and can electrify the room. He tells great stories, plays excellent poker, can win a game of pool or darts with one hand tied behind his back, and he always gives credit where credit is due.

  Ma waits silently by the door. Aaron and Frankie watch Frank with adoration in their eyes, like it’s the greatest thing in the world to be a big shot in a small-town bar with a handful of funny stories of things you did twenty years ago.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  Aaron gives me a small wave and Frankie ignores me. Ma touches my arm. “Frank wants to take us all out to a nice dinner. He and the boys went to the gun range and fired some rounds. You should have seen how wonderful they were.”

  Fan-freaking-tastic. More family time. Like this day hasn’t contained enough horror. “Not here, I hope.”

  Ma shakes her head, a strand of hair falling into her eyes. Her too-bright tangerine lipstick bleeds into the fine lines around her mouth. “Olive Garden. In St. Joe. Afterward, we’re getting a new stainless steel dishwasher from Lowes.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  Her face darkens. “Don’t ruin tonight with your nasty attitude, young lady. Show some respect.”

  I sigh, but I shut up. The whole night, the boys and Frank chatter about the guns they shot and how many targets they hit. Frank loves his guns almost as much as his truck and his beer. Almost. Then Frank tells the boys he picked up the newest PlayStation while they were at school, and they about wriggle out of their seats with excitement. Frank loves playing the hero.

  But that’s more money we need for bills and food the next time he takes off. More money that’s not going to fix the leak in the roof over Aaron’s bed or the air conditioner in the Camry. It’s like he doesn’t know or care that when he’s gone, we eat peanut butter sandwiches and Ramen noodles, rationing out the food to make it last. I shove the dark thoughts out of my head. Here, now, we can eat whatever we want. Today, we are rich.

  At Olive Garden, we get the usual salad and breadsticks, and Frank orders a bottle of wine. We get whatever drinks we want, even chocolate milk for the boys. Screw it, I think, and I order the biggest item on the menu, the Tour of Italy. Frank doesn’t bat an eyelash.

  Frank’s laugh is warm. He rubs Ma’s shoulder and her face glows with pleasure. Frankie and Aaron compete to tell the best stories about school, their classmates, whatever they can think of.

  A sick, sour taste lodges in the back of my throat. I hate that I am an outsider in my own family. I resent my brothers’ giddiness with a jealousy that makes my eyes burn, makes my heart throb with pain. I want so badly to join in, to be a part of this bright, shiny picture. But I can’t. It’s not real.

  Frank doesn’t ask me questions and I don’t talk. But every time I look up, I catch his gaze on me, crawling over my skin. I recognize that look. I know what’s coming. I swallow hard. I eat everything on my plate, slurping up the fettuccine so fast, I’m barely chewing, shoveling every bite of food into the black pit opening up inside my gut. My heart thuds against my ribcage so loud, I’m sure everyone can hear it.

  After Olive Garden, we go to Lowes and Ma gets to pick out a $900 dishwasher with steam this and sterilized that, all the bells and whistles. Frank and Ma discuss specifications with a skinny college kid in a red Lowes' vest.

  I stare at the rows of shiny white and steel appliances until my vision blurs. My head is buzzing, and it’s hard to think straight. Frankie pushes Aaron up and down the wide aisles in one of those massive flat carts. He rounds a row of refrigerators too fast and swerves to avoid hitting a middle-aged woman with a toddler in tow. Aaron tumbles off and skids against the concrete.

  He bursts into tears and holds his knee, which is already trickling blood. “You stupidhead!” he shrieks at Frankie.

  “You’re the moron who let go.”

  “Shut up!” I grab his arm and hoist him to his feet. I dab the scrape with the corner of my shirt. “You’re okay, Aaron. You’re fine.”

  But he sees the blood and howls louder.

  Frank stomps over. Storm clouds descend over his features. He squats down and puts his face right up into Aaron’s. “What the hell is going on here? No son of mine acts like this. Are you a crybaby? A wimpy faggot? What’s wrong with you?”

  Snot runs down Aaron’s lip. His crying turns into harsh, hiccuping sobs.

  Frank shakes his h
ead in disgust. “Your mother’s turned you soft. Little fag baby.”

  I cringe at the ugliness of his words. I sense the rage mounting up inside of Frank, can feel it thrumming in my own blood like a warning, a time bomb ticking so quietly only I can hear it. I need to do something or things are going to go sideways real fast. “I’ll take him to the car.”

  “At least do something useful with yourself. Get him out of my sight.”

  I grab Aaron’s hand and lead him out of the store. It’s dark out, the parking lot almost empty. I try to mentally count the glasses of wine he had at dinner. Three? Four? Things aren’t looking good.

  I get Aaron in the truck. I sit next to him and wipe the fresh blood dribbling from his knee. “You have to stop crying. Please.”

  “I can’t!” he says in between sobs. The parking lot street lights reflect through the windows and flicker across his face.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath. My skin is cold and clammy. I’m lightheaded. No matter how I feel, I have to calm him down. I rub circles over his back and speak in my softest voice, the one I used with him when he was a baby. “Take deep breaths. Ready? One, two, three. Good. Take a big one. Let it out slow. It’s okay. It’s almost stopped bleeding. Calm down.”

  He takes several ragged breaths. He sniffles and wipes his nose with his arm. “Frankie did it on purpose.”

  “I know. But you can’t cry about everything. You know how he gets.” I’m talking about more than Frankie, and Aaron’s old enough, has seen enough, to know what I mean. “You’ve got to toughen up.”

  “Okay.” He sniffs again, his little body shuddering with every breath. “Sidney?”

  “What?”

  “Am I the word that Pop said? Faggot?”

  I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. My hatred for Frank this moment is a towering inferno. “No. Never. There’s nothing you could do to make you that word. It’s a mean, nasty word that mean and nasty people use to tear someone down and make them feel bad. That’s all. Okay?”

  “Okay, but people at school say that word to me, too. ’Cause I like pink and sparkly things. ’Cause I cry sometimes. They say I like boys.”

  I want to beat the snot out of every kid in his school. I don’t care how young they are. They’re old enough to know better. I want to shake Aaron and tell him he has to be tougher, stronger, harder, but his sweet little face is looking up at me, and I just can’t bring myself to do it. “You are good. Just like this. Whatever you want to be is just fine. It doesn’t matter if you like boys or pink sparkles or wear purple polka dotted skirts to school every day. Okay? No one has a right to treat you like crap.”

  The corners of his mouth tilt into a tiny smile. “Will you hold my hand?”

  I lace my fingers through his. They are still so small, so delicate. I swallow hard. “Tonight, you need to stay in your room. Don’t come out, okay?”

  He nods. I hold his hand all the way home in the crackling silence. The dread creeps up my throat, strangling my breath.

  I help Ma get Aaron to bed. I tuck him in with Ratty Bunny and kiss his damp forehead. Once I’m ready for bed, I sketch a quick picture of Ratty Bunny driving the cart, flying through the air in Lowes, shooting low over an aisle full of a hundred different kinds of toilets. I fold the page into a triangle and tuck it into the buffet drawer. It’ll make him smile when he checks it in the morning.

  Frank installs the dishwasher in the kitchen, with Ma humming and Frank chain smoking and swearing with increasing volume. Things are normal now, but they won’t be for long. I know what’s coming. I try to read the assigned chapter from Government. The words keep scrabbling across the page, jumping and leapfrogging until I can’t even make out individual sentences anymore.

  After a while, the house goes dark. Ma switches off the lights and locks the doors and there’s murmuring from down the hallway and then silence. Awhile after that, footsteps pad down the hallway and pause at my door. My head is full of cotton and I can feel my body thick and heavy sinking through my comforter, sinking through the mattress, then the flimsy green carpeting and the floorboards and then the concrete and the soft dark earth below.

  Then he comes in and does what he does and there are no sounds but breathing and even if there were, I wouldn’t hear them. I’m far away. I’m someone else. This body I loathe isn’t mine. It’s discarded, dissolved, the larva shrugging off its skin, liquefying its organs, leaving everything, including itself, behind.

  12

  Friday morning, I smash myself into Dr. Yang’s blue nubby chair, trying to get comfortable. He’s talking about something, but I’m only half-listening. I unwrap a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and offer him one. He shakes his head.

  “I can’t help you if you refuse to help yourself,” Dr. Yang says, spewing out more of his shrink talk. His fingers steeple beneath his chin. There are hollows under his eyes and stubble spattered with gray around his jawline. He looks like he needs more help than I do.

  I pop the peanut butter cup in my mouth. I close my eyes as the deliciously sweet taste fills my mouth. “What does that even mean?”

  “You know what it means. You’ve neglected to write your apology letter to Jackson Cole and his family.”

  “And?”

  “It would behoove you to write the letter. It’s been weeks. You should know the Cole family is still threatening legal action. I can’t protect you from that.”

  I eat the second peanut butter cup, crush up the wrapper, and toss it in the trash can beside the desk. “Whatever.”

  “In addition, Coach Taylor informs me you’re one point from failing Phys Ed.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  More shrink talk. “I feel dandy. Splendiferous. That’s a word, right?”

  He sighs. “In here, it’s safe to talk about your feelings.”

  My feelings are a boiling vat of poison ready to scorch through my veins and spill into the world like acid, incinerating everything it touches. He’d be shocked and repulsed by the ugliness in me. He’d make one phone call, and they’d drag me kicking and screaming straight to a padded room somewhere, or at least a cell with a big, fat lock.

  No one cares. No one wants to see. Some pretend to want to know, but they don’t really. No one wants to know about all the ugly things in the world. They don’t want to know that the darkest, most despicable acts happen right under their noses, that the real monsters live amongst us. They don’t want to know.

  I told one person. Once. The summer after eighth grade when my breasts sprouted like tumors and it all went to hell. I can recall every detail. My mother sitting at the kitchen table in a pool of sunlight, her head bowed over her embroidery. It was the purple vase full of daisies and forget-me-nots, the one she framed and hung by the bathroom in the hallway.

  She wove a purple thread on a needle back and forth through the white canvas. She hummed and her face was flushed. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. There was a glass of cranberry-colored wine on the table next to a half-empty bottle.

  I sat down at the table, dug a fingernail into one of the dings in the aged, honey-colored wood. Frankie and Aaron were messing around in the front yard, learning to ride the shiny red scooters Frank brought home. Aaron was only five, but Frank picked out a regular sized scooter which was too big for Aaron. He kept falling on the driveway, spitting out cries of frustration and disappointment. Frankie rode circles around him, hooting with delight.

  The window unit air conditioner was out again, and Ma had a box fan blowing hot air in her direction. It was August, and the whole house was sweltering. But I was ice cold, my fingers so numb and limp, I could hardly put on my clothes or lift my spoon at breakfast. For two days, I’d been sleepwalking through some kind of nightmare, my mind shrieking and banging against the cage of my skull. But outside my skin, no one could hear, no one could see how I was flayed, turned inside out, flesh raw and bleeding.

  Ma was never the most reliable even on her best days, but who else di
d I have? Mothers were supposed to be the protectors of their children, to shield them from the terrors of the night. At least, that’s what they promised in books and movies.

  “Ma?”

  “Hmmm.” Her face was thin, young still. She wore mascara and blush, brightening her pale skin. “Morning, sleepy head. Make yourself some cereal. I started toast but it got burned, somehow. Must be something wrong with the toaster again.”

  “Where’s Frank?”

  “Don’t call him that. He’s your father. He went to the gun range. Then he’s got some meeting with Dan Wallback, about a temp manufacturing job in Detroit somewhere.”

  “So he’s leaving again.”

  Ma shrugged. For a few years, Frank worked at the used car lot on Broadview for his old high school buddy, Mac Roos. But having a boss never sat well with him, and he quit (or got fired) last year. Since then, he’d grab temp jobs at the local factories, help build a shed or fix someone’s engine or transmission, whatever he could find. On the weekends, he went out drinking with Bill Beauvais and Hector Gonzales and hit the casinos.

  “Ma,” I tried again. I rolled the words I needed to say over my tongue. They were bitter, nasty words. Words that would tear a gaping hole right through the fabric of our sun-strewn kitchen. My muscles were rigid. My thoughts banged around inside my head. There’s this thing eating my insides . . . “I need to tell you something.”

  “About next school year?” She wove the thread through the canvas, deftly puncturing it with the needle. I watched it punch through, come back up, leaving a slim line of fuchsia that wasn’t there before. Even when she was half-drunk, she could still weave the needle like it was nothing. She’d finished a dozen needlepoints over the last few years, pictures of flowers or old farm houses, framing them and hanging them in the hallway or in the living room over the couch.