by A. K. Smith
“I tripped on the ice and hit my sister’s skate blade.” He shrunk in his seat.
The bullies were having a field day coming up with nicknames to describe the cut on his face.
“Does anyone know how it happened?” I whispered.
He shrugged his shoulders not looking me in the eyes.
“Don’t worry, we are going to make up the best story about how you cut your face. You’ll be a hero.”
He looked at me, I mean really looked at me, and right in the eyes. I liked that because in his eyes I saw something different, something kind, and something unexpected that I couldn’t describe. He invited me to his house for an after-school snack that day and I concocted a story of how he walked across Briars Lake and he saved a dog from drowning. I was a good liar even back then. The dog’s name was Harvey and the owners called Jack a hero. By the time we were done, I couldn’t look at his cheek without seeing Jack rescuing a black soaking-wet shivering dog named Harvey.
Going to Jack’s house after school is the best part of my life. He is my hero. I find the courage to make the rest of the way there now. As I raise my hand to knock, the door of his cookie cutter home opens and that Grant family smell makes me want to cry and release my shame and sorrow of the other night. Cinnamon, mixed in with onions with a splash of fabric softener invades my nose. I’m addicted to the smell, the Grant family, and their happiness. For a split second I want to tell them what happened, but the words don’t surface. I can’t. Impossible. I blink back the tears and thank the rain for making my face wet.
“Where’s your umbrella? Sunday, you’re soaking wet.” Jack’s mom goes to hug me but then pushes me inside and grabs a towel to help me dry off.
I need the hug.
“The boys are playing poker, in the dining room.”
“Jack? Hello, Jack, are you in or out?” Jack’s Dad, Ed looks as irritated as I feel.
“Call.” Jack slides another poker chip in the kitty and flashes his adorable smile.
Ed has laser eyes on Jack, talking to me without looking. “Hi Sunday, No umbrella?”
“I forgot it.”
“What? It’s raining out?” Jack starts to get up to give me a hug.
“Wait, Jack. Sunday, Jack will be with you in a minute. All in.” Ed pushes his large stack of poker chips in.
Jack is biting his lip and shrugging his shoulders.
“If you lose, you’re mowing the lawn Saturday.” Ed winks at me.
“I got nothin’, and I don’t feel like playin’, but maybe you’re bluffin’ again.” Jack pushes his chips in.
“And you’re going to tip over backwards if you keep leaning on the back of the chair like that.”
“Three Queens.” Ed scoops the chips to his side.
“It’s your tell, Jack,” Ed says, grinning, scooping up the pile of chips with an annoying chuckle.
“Stop it, Dad, why are you laughing at me?”
Jack tries to catch himself at the last second, as his chair loses control and he flips backward.
Ed shakes his head and with an exaggerated loud whisper, “Jack, it’s your tell!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Figure it out, son, or don’t play poker with real money. Ever. And next time, don’t play cards and leave Sunday waiting for you.”
The words roll through my mind. It’s your tell.
Chapter 4
Geek Shoes, Birthday Presents, and Bullies
The trickling stream usually gives me clarity, but not today. My focus is stuck on the black and blue bruises on my wrist. Images of Tyler crushing my wrists together with his left hand flash like a blinking light behind my closed eyes. I couldn’t tell Jack what I’d let Tyler do. Last night, I ended up fake sleeping during an entire movie. Finally, when Jack fell asleep, I snuck out. I didn’t want to wake him.
I won’t ever be ready to tell him. I can’t. I am ashamed. I’m mortified and infuriated. How, how did I let this happen?
I throw the flat matte stone in the creek with a vengeance, and then I wipe my tears with my sleeve. I’m out of my mind, blaming myself for going out to dinner with Tyler and then kissing him. I definitely kissed him.
Oh yes. I clench my teeth and close my eyes. I remember what he said, what he called me. Maybe he was right: I asked for it, I was a tease. Sick to my stomach, I try to push it out of my mind.
I hear a branch snap and a rustle. I jump, but I don’t turn. It’s my next-door neighbor Amir. I’m certain as he always shows up when I need to be alone. I’m used to it. Somehow, he feels when I’m in trouble.
Amir slowly enters my side vision. He positions his chunky body on the rock nearest the water, about twenty feet from me, his shoes slowing turning darker with water and mud below his dress pants. Does he know they’re getting wet? It’s ridiculous, his father never lets him buy jeans. I feel sorry for him, being controlled by his father, but I understand putting up with things that are nonsensical. Somehow, our proximity as neighbors and the fact that both our parents are freaks have created a weird friendship.
We sit in silence, Amir staring at the water through his old-fashioned black frame glasses and thick lenses. Hidden under the square glasses are kind eyes. His left pant leg continues to become wet with water splashes, and I can’t stop staring at the dark stain. It makes me think of everything I don’t want to think about it.
“Everything okay, Sunday?”
I lift my eyes and notice a cut on his cheek. The raw wound makes me flash to Jack, who still bears the scar on his right cheek from the so-called saving the dog story. How many times have I kissed Jack’s scar? My stomach pangs sharply. I swallow my grief and turn my focus on Amir.
“What happened to your face?”
Amir adjusts his glasses, focusing on the running water. He glances down at his pants, the spots growing darker. He is clearly getting wet, but he doesn’t move.
“HLB,” he grumbles.
HLB stands for Hard Liquor Boys. The two cliques at Sunset Park High School, the Hard Liquor Boys (HLB) and the Dream Team (respectively, six spray-tanned wannabe models and a clan of seven guys, mostly from the wrestling and football teams) run the school.
Even though Amir and I are both high-scoring academic nerds, Amir, with his Muslim mother and militant father, enthralls the HLBs. His body is a magnet pulling the bullies toward him. They’re drawn to him to knock him down on a daily basis.
It’s been tough for Amir for as long as I can remember. Amir moved in next door when I turned ten. I remember it clearly because, just like today, I was crying in my backyard, hiding on the side of the house so SHE would not see me from her smoking porch. HE and SHE had missed my birthday again. Even though I expected it, at ten, it hurt like hell. Amir gently spoke to me behind the broken slat on his side of the fence, introducing himself as the new neighbor.
Casting quick glances through the barrier, he sat in silence, pretending not to see the wet tears on my face or the discolored swollen pattern of blue, purple and yellow welts on my arm. I’m not sure why but I told him the truth: that my parents forgot my birthday. He never asked about the bruises.
Every year since that day, Amir has always given me some sort of present on my birthday. He never forgets. Sometimes it’s a candy bar or a used book, but this year, for my sixteenth, it was a little pair of blue amethyst earrings. His face was bright red when he handed me a little wrapped box. “It’s your birthstone.” It was sweet, but the expression on his face for some reason made me uncomfortable.
He hasn’t changed much from back then: he still wears the dress shoes and out-of-style slacks forced on him by his father. Amir’s thick black hair is cut so short that when it grows in, it surrounds his head unevenly giving him an oversized head. His brown skin is dotted with acne sores and his braces seem to crack his lips. He’s not helping his cause as he has a bad habit of continuously chewing on his bottom lip. But, for what he lacks in outward appearances, his kindness to me is transparent.
&n
bsp; His father, an ex-soldier, met his mother during Desert Storm. They fell in love, got married and came back to the States, where Amir James Carter was born. Now retired, his father’s full attention is on Amir. He wants him to be the doctor he never was.
Amir loves technology and computers and envisions himself as the next Mark Zuckerberg—being a doctor isn’t even on his radar—but he never voices this to his father. He lies, too.
His father calls him Dr. AJ, a nickname Amir hates, but it’s better than what the bullies call him: terrorist, towelhead, or Amir the Queer.
Amir doesn’t have many friends, except for Eric Beck and me. Our covert friendship exists only outside the school boundaries, and Eric, another neglected, nerdy soul who is a senior like Amir, barely utters a word at school. He comes over occasionally to surf Amir’s computer and play some crazy zombie killing video game in Amir’s basement. I’m not into video games. The game they play is an exceptionally dark and disturbing game, and when I ask Amir why he likes it, he shrugs his shoulders.
Amir watches me through the trees—he’s done it for years. He follows me when I escape to the clearing by the creek, my special place. Most days I know he’s sitting back in the tree line before he approaches me. Sometimes we sit in silence and throw rocks. Some days, we quietly complain about our parents.
Amir is aware that my family situation sucks. He witnesses the yelling from HE and watches SHE, the medicated smoker who never speaks or touches her daughter, sit on the porch. Amir is smart. He observes and remembers everything, filing it away in the computer of his brain. In the last six years, Amir has witnessed a lot of what happens next door to his house. He has heard the crashes, thumps and my cries. Jack only knows what I tell him, but Amir witnesses the reality. He hears the truth. Just like Jack, Amir knows about THE PLAN.
Jack also doesn’t know how much Amir and I whisper our dreams of escape. Amir has his own plan, and it does not include medical school. We talk about the day we will be uncontrolled. Jack would have a hard time identifying with the overwhelming desire that compels Amir and me.
I don’t have issues with the bullies like Amir and Eric do. Not anymore. I think they finally figured out I just don’t care. I mean, I really don’t. I’ve been bullied by my parents my whole life. What these high school kids think they have on me when they call me names doesn’t begin to touch the cruelty of not being loved my entire life. HE has called me awful names so many times, their words roll right off me.
The late afternoon is a perfect early spring temperature with a blue sky and soft breeze. I try to remember how a wonderful day used to make me happy.
“Are you going on the Spring Fling whitewater trip?” Amir says quietly as he tosses another stone in the creek. Amir must be in another growing spurt, even his sleeve doesn’t seem to reach his wrist.
“I don’t know. I know Jack…” My voice quivers as I say Jack’s name. I can’t go over to his house tonight. Last night was tough enough. “He would like to go. He loves whitewater rafting.” I put on my fake face, that I have now mastered , a gesture I have mastered. Like a classic actress winning an award, I can speak and mask my emotions. “It’s a couple weeks from now, so we’ll see. Should be fun. You going?” I think about Jack again and then Tyler. I want to throw up.
“Not sure. I don’t know… it’s a junior-senior thing, I’ve never gone before, but thought maybe I should go because I’m a senior. Eric mentioned he might be going.”
“Eric Beck, whitewater rafting? Now that’s a funny picture.” I snort, only because it seems weird to picture Eric Beck out in the water.
Amir’s face darkens and he turns away, his other pant leg starts getting wet. I know Amir will not go on this trip. Why is he acting so strange? He never participates in anything in school. His father is probably on him to attend, since the permission slips and all the parental forms were sent through email and mail. Mine are oblivious to any school activity. If I wanted to go, I could sign the consent form, like I have for the past five years.
“You should go, maybe like a last thing to do before you graduate.” I try to sound convincing, supportive.
Amir told me before that his father was elated over his acceptance into the pre-med program at MIT, so perhaps they were getting on him about participation in school functions before he graduated. I couldn’t imagine declaring a major that I had no intention of staying in. Once Amir graduated and turned 18, his father was going to be surprised. I knew Amir would not become a doctor. Nausea hits me again.
“You sure you’re all right? Are you sick?” Amir asks.
The word pregnant slithers in the back of my mind like an evil snake. My period was due three days ago, and it didn’t happen. I’m never late. My stomach hurts just thinking about it. I bow my head…tucking my grief under my skin. I know what I have to do.
“Sunday, is everything okay?”
I look at him, this gentle techie oddity, and the words I want to say are stuck behind my teeth. I want them to spill out of my mouth. I need to talk to someone about what happened. If I could just tell someone. Someone. Anyone. A squirrel runs down the edge of the bank, knocking rocks, stones rolling, breaking the silence. The confessional moment is over.
I close my eyes, digging my nails into the palm of my hand so they stop shaking.
I get up, brush the dirt off my jeans, and look back in the direction of my house. “Everything is fine. I gotta run to the store.”
Chapter 5
THE DARK, Lies, and Loss
“Can I help you?” a worker asks.
Really? I want to shout. Never have I been asked if I needed help in a dollar store. Do I have ‘I’m buying a pregnancy test’ written on my face?’ I just want to get it and go. God, I wish I had somewhere to go. It’s Sunday, ha, my day of the week, and I lied to Jack, again. I’ve lied to him all week about work. I can’t go back to work, ever. I called in sick all week. They will fire me. It doesn’t matter.
Jack matters, but I can’t face him right now.
Now there is a line at checkout and everyone can see my purchase. I want to run.
“Did you find everything okay?” the old woman asks and then looks at what I’m buying. Silence.
She quickly bags it as I pay for the test, and run out the door to get on the bus. When I finally look out the window, there’s a billboard for Clarks Pharmacy.
A sign. Clark. I know where I want to go.
Sandy Beach State Park.
After an hour on the bus. I arrive. It’s crowded. Sunday, family day. Walking away from the crowds, I need to think, alone. I can’t believe what could actually be happening right now. I’m late. Only five days now, but I’m late. As I perch upon a rock, I know this could change everything.
The sand runs through my closed fist. As it runs through, I scoop another fistful. The unknown is definitely better than the known—it has to be. What I know is that sick, awful guys are wrapped up in handsome packages. What I know is that I habitually lie to everyone; no one knows the truth about the incident with Tyler, not even Jack. What I know is that HE and SHE are self-absorbed, materialistic, addictive, hateful freaks who could care less about their only child.
Well, let me clarify: I’m not their only child. I’m the only living child.
Laughter, yelling and music. The soundtrack of families creates a melody. The distant shimmer of the bay is constantly changing, I search the horizon for answers. I can think here. I can think about Clark and remember.
Once, there was Clark. Clark was the first. I am the last. Clark died before I was born. HE and SHE do not have any photos of Clark hanging on the wall, or in a frame, or at the office. Clark is not spoken of. Ever. I know that if my big brother was alive, he would let me cry on his shoulder about Tyler. He would probably beat him up to teach him a lesson.
My discovery of Clark was an accident.
I was seven and remember sneaking into SHE’s room when I was left home alone, yet again. SHE has a separate bedroom from HE. Perchi
ng myself on her enormous window seat covered with pretty pink flowers, I played dolls. Playing with my dolls in her room—was off limits to me. This particular day, the window seat offered a warm place to create a tri-level house for my dolls. Designing their new home with my treasure trove of small objects—jewelry boxes, cardboard containers, coins, tiny plastic furniture, and a few pieces of carpet and fabric—I began building a lovely habitat. The creak of the front door opening and closing struck me like a shrill fire alarm, spreading a pounding panic. I demolished my newly-built real estate. Rushing to gather my pieces of plastic furniture and little boxes, I cringed as one of my little blue marbles (used as the bath water in the miniature doll tub), rolled, dropped, and hit the floor, rolling again under the bed. In my hurry to retrieve it, my elbow hit the Bible on the night stand, and it went flying. Three pictures stuck inside the pages, fluttered to the floor. A cute boy sporting a goofy smile, wearing a striped navy blue and green shirt, smiled out at me.
I forgot about the marble.
The boy, two or three years old, sat behind a red and yellow Big Wheel. His smiling face captivated me. As I picked the photo up, the larger photo underneath, froze me in place. SHE was actually smiling, and HE was suppressing a laugh as they sat in the sand with the boy. All three dressed in white shirts and khaki shorts with black flip-flops. Their white teeth glowed against golden skin. Who were they? Imposters? Not my parents—khaki and white did not exist in their closet.
A sharp pain in my gut, startled me. Who was this kid, this cute boy who made them laugh and smile? HE and SHE had never been happy with me. Never.
Now that I know he is my brother, I can see the resemblance. Clark was beautiful. He had the same blonde wavy hair as me, but with startling green eyes and large lips. My eyes are blue, sometimes blue-green in sunlight, but way too large for my face. His were perfectly sized, sea-green. It was hard to remember my thought process at such a young age, but I remember entering the kitchen, gently carrying the Bible like a platter with the pictures on top. I asked something simple like, “Who is this?”
