Chasing Tail Lights Page 12

  My brain's smashing cells hover between saying "My name is why don't you leave me alone" or saying "My name is whatever you want it to be." But my words remain in my mind, so he speaks again.

  "Derrick," he says, but he doesn't offer his hand, instead his fingers brush against my hand. The touch sends shivers of fear, which I know, and an unfamiliar shiver of optimism.

  "Christy," I tell him. I'm not sure if he'll hear me, since I'm talking to his hands, which remain mostly at his side, the tips of his fingers just making contact with me. I know that I'll lift my head up again to tell him Anne's name, since that's the obvious next question.

  "You're a fine dancer," Derrick says. "How come I haven't seen you at clubs at CMU?"

  "I don't go out much," I say, reintroducing myself to the truth.

  "Well, Christy, that's a damn shame," he says in a loud whisper. "You wanna dance with me?" I'm fighting back a smile and losing the battle, so I decide to lift my head. He's not really dancing, just kind of swaying now to the slow R & B song. I think how earlier I told Anne "let go," and now I take that advice, letting him pull me gently into his human touch.

  He presses against me, but I don't react, either running away or holding him closer. He seems like a pretty good dancer, but I suspect as his hands move farther down my back that dancing isn't what he's really interested in doing with me. "I gotta go," I say as the song ends.

  "You should lose the hood unless you're from it," Derrick says into my ear. The music has stopped spinning, but he hasn't. "And lose that big-ass gangster sweatshirt."

  "Excuse me," I say, finally taking a step back.

  He leans back into me. "I'm just saying, you look really cool, don't know why you're hiding it." He speaks with the confident tone that Anne owns. I look at him and see something strange: someone telling me a truth with their eyes, since my ears refuse to believe.

  I take a step back, then with shaking hands take the hood off my head, but the sweatshirt stays no matter how smooth his talk, or how awkward my response. "Really?"

  "Sweet hair," he says, then he takes a step back, if only to get some distance so he can dance to the now booming beat that sounds almost as loud as the pounding coming from my chest. As I watch him dance, with more freedom and fluid movement than I'll ever know, I notice his group of flamingo friends behind him aren't laughing. As the dance club speakers push out shouting song lyrics I can't understand, I hear instead my own voice telling myself "let go."

  Anne's still talking wildly on her cell, but I'm struggling with words. I guess she's called Tommy to tell him of this strange occurrence, a positive freak of nature: his cousin Christy looking happy. As the next slow song oozes across the club, I let Derrick hold me a little tighter, even if I need to keep his hands from moving a little lower. Nothing's going to happen between us, which is what I want, but thinking that something could happen, that's what I've needed for a long time.

  "So, could I call you sometime back at CMU?" Derrick says quickly between songs.

  I again pretend not to hear, as I try to remember my made-up college life. "What?"

  He makes a motion, like he's talking on the phone; he's a better dancer than mime. I finally answer even as I'm asking the question to the test: does he really want me? "I'm never home, why don't you give me your number, okay?" I say, thinking that's what Anne would do.

  He smiles and I can't help but respond in kind. He turns and shouts something to his buds standing behind him. One of them throws him something, which he catches. He very gently takes my left hand and starts to write on my palm with a black magic marker. "This is my cell."

  I wish I could tell him that these numbers were the combination unlocking the belief that someone could want me, but before I can speak, Anne taps me on the shoulder, then whispers, "Let's cruise, lover girl."

  As Anne and I head for the parking lot I feel like I'm walking a little taller. While I know the security shock troops won't be whistling or craning their necks when I walk by this time, now, I think they could.

  sixth grade, december

  "What are you doing in my room?"

  I can smell the stink of him, even across the room, standing by my door. He doesn't answer; instead he walks slowly toward me. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. My locked jaw forces the terror down my throat. I pull the thin blue blanket over my head, but he rips it away, tossing it onto the floor. I try to push him away, but he's too strong. I try to resist, but even in the darkness, his cold, dark eyes hold me in place, like some science fiction movie death ray. I curl up against the back of the bed, since there's nowhere to run. He presses up against me, his legs against my body, pinching my skin through the thin pajamas.

  "Shut up," he hisses, then puts his left hand across my mouth. I try to bite him, but the force and mass is too big for me. He moves his hand up slightly so it also covers my nose. I struggle to breathe, my lungs frantically pulling in the air, including every odor molecule of his stinky body. I try to fight, but he's too big, too strong, too everything.

  "Take that off," he says, tugging with his right hand at my top. When I pause, he slams his arm across my throat. "Now!"

  My eyes consent. He takes his arm away, and I remove my top, then throw it on the floor. I cover my barely existent breasts with my hands, then I close my eyes. My ears bleed hearing the loud grating metallic sound of a zipper. My stomach churns as the bed shakes from his rapid arm movements. His breathing gets heavier, until... He lets out a harsh sound as I feel the hot, wet sensation on my chest. He sighs, then leans into me, his tongue almost in my ear. "Ugly bitch, I knew you'd like it," he says, then slithers from theroomleav-ing me on the now stained and forever unclean sheets.

  15

  december 31, senior year

  "Is he here yet?"

  Anne surveys the room; she's the appointed Glen spotter. "No sign yet, Speedy."

  "I'm sure he'll be here," I say as I breathe out a sigh of relief, but breathe in a feeling of fright. I should first get from Anne's father those drugs they use when they transplant organs: I need a dose of an antirejection drug to get me through this party. I've decided that "when" is now.

  "Unlike Tommy," I say, twisting the knife a little. My cousin is now a cautious man—the thought of a graduate of the juvenile correctional system hanging out at a teen party wasn't a smart idea. Glen invited us to join him at this New Year's Eve gathering at Rani's house. She lives in Anne and Glen's neighborhood on the other side of the bridge. I'm on edge in this house, knowing that I can't live another year, or even day, without Glen. I look at Anne. While she's alone at this party, she's no longer alone in her life. I'm so happy for her; I'm so damn jealous.

  "How do I look?" I ask Anne, thinking how Derrick made such a question possible. My freshly showered hair is still wet, and the water causes my ear candy to glisten in the light. Despite the shower before Anne arrived, some days and nights, like this one, I can't feel clean.

  "Like a gold medal!" The loud music has been making my head spin; my running legs feel the need to unwind and dance. I kick off my shoes as I try shaking out the nerves; instead, I rearrange the too-tight-for-Christy white dress and the stress swimming in my blood.

  "Tonight is the night," Anne says, coaching me toward the finish line of unfulfilled love. She's called in sick again for work and is risking another grounding by coming out with me. I begged her to come to the party with me, asking the rare favor. I'm desperate for Glen and to get out of the house. Mitchell's spending time at Tommy's, while Aunt Dee and Breezy are visiting relatives down in Cleveland. Mama's off playing the slots, while I've spent the day at home with Ryan. Anne arrived late to my house, but any time wouldn't have been a minute too soon.

  I stare at the floor. "I like Glen so much."

  "I know, Speedy, I know," Anne says, which is nice. She doesn't laugh at me, which is nicer. Looking around the room, I think how I've gone to school with most of these people for four years, but they're all strangers to me. I stand behi
nd Anne as she talks randomly, all the while watching the front door.

  "Twelve o'clock high!" Anne shouts excitedly, pointing at the door as Glen walks in, along with Tristan and some other theater folks. He's wearing a long black trench coat, black gloves, and a long red scarf that touches the ground. He's growing a beard, at Mr. McDonald's suggestion, for the part of Romeo, and that makes him look even more handsome. "Remember, if not now, then when?" Anne whispers as she walks away.

  "Hey, Christy," Glen says, those blue eyes cutting right through me. Even though he's surrounded by people all wanting his time, for this moment, I'm the most important person.

  "How was your Christmas?" I ask, desperate for conversation.

  "Check it out," he says, then shows me a watch that costs more than the entire contents of my closet. He's talking to me, but his eyes are darting around the room. "How about you?"

  "Okay. Anne got me this dress," I say, pressing the dress down against my body, forcing those blue eyes to look at the white fabric and the paler white skin peeking out from underneath.

  "Cool," he says with an indifferent shrug. Obviously I'm losing his attention and my opportunity. Tristan, one of his always present theater toadies, is tugging on his arm.

  I open my palm to show him a virgin joint. "Wanna hit?" I ask.

  "Sure," he says, pulling himself away from Tristan, who is one of the straight-edge types.

  I take the lead, and we head back downstairs. Glen's always acting: he wants people to think he's cool, but he's never wanted a rep as a pothead with his high school theater-artsy pals. We walk into the basement bathroom. I open the door, flip on the light and the fan. "This okay?"

  "Sure," he says, as we walk inside. I close the door, hand him the joint, then light it for him. He takes a hit, coughs, and holds in the smoke, while I'm finally ready to let it out.

  "So do you think Rani knows you're rehearsing without her?" I whisper, even though the locked door protects us from the outside world peering into our business. We've only run lines a couple of times, and it was during lunch at school.

  "I haven't told anyone," Glen says. "I know how to keep a secret. That's what friends are for, right?"

  "I can keep a secret too," I say in the sexiest voice I can summon, a voice that sounds nothing like a friend or friendly dealer. "You know there's one scene we haven't rehearsed yet."

  "What's that?" He seems nervous, less charming than his normal self.

  "The scene where Romeo and Juliet kiss for the first time." He's inhaling again, so I have the floor. "Although you'd probably want to rehearse that with Rani."

  He laughs, then checks to make sure the door is tightly closed. "She's such a bitch."

  He hands me back the joint, but instead of taking a hit, I decide I want something else up against my lips. I touch his hand, hold it tight, then lean into him, dizzy with desire.

  He takes a step back, but I take a giant leap forward. I toss the joint into the sink, toss caution to the wind, and risk it all by wrapping my hands around his neck. "Christy, please, don't do this," he says even as I push my lips against his. My kiss is tiny and tentative.

  I take another step up, trying to focus as my head and life spin out of control, the high of the weed and low of my life crash together. My mouth has failed me again. Even with my anger-inspired manic makeover, Glen sees me as Ryan does: an ugly bitch. Knowing now that Glen finds me unlovable, I realize all that's left and all I'm good for, is to be fuckable. I reach behind me, quickly unzip, and then let my dress fall to my feet. "Glen, don't you want me—"

  "It's just that. . .," he starts, but finishes the sentence by exiting the bathroom.

  I look in the mirror and think how ugly I am when I cry. I grab the dress from the floor, then stare again into the mirror. Instead of putting the dress back on, I wrap it around my right hand, form a fist, then smash it hard into the mirror. My self-image shatters as the mirror breaks, and another seven years of bad luck come my way. I put the dress back on, the bloodstain from the cut on my hand my reminder of this evening, and pick up out of the sink the biggest, sharpest piece of broken mirror. I slip out of the bathroom, then just as quickly run out the back door. Anne yells at me, but I'm too far gone, leaving my coat and my ride, along with my dignity, my blood, and my reason for living, back at the party. I'm off the chain, sprinting through the streets of Flint in bitter winter weather. I know for once exactly where I'm running: to the bridge to chase tail lights for the very last time. As I'm running, I know I won't win a gold medal, but instead I'll reward myself by raising my hand high in the air in victory to make the vein in my wrist easier to see and sever.

  fifth grade, september

  "Daddy, please don't die."

  I'm holding Daddy's limp hand, but there's no answer, not even the sounds of the machines, which stopped beeping. Mitchell's beside me, but he's too little to offer comfort.

  "He can't hear you," Mitchell tells me softly. He's trying to be tough and not cry. It's how I would imagine Robert would react, if he ever would have come to visit, but he's nowhere to be seen. He and Daddy never got along once Robert started to go bad; the more Daddy yelled, the more Robert stayed away, even now. Ryan is outside the room consoling Mama.

  "I know," I say, feeling sick to my stomach. The hospital smells of ammonia, metal, laundry soap, and piss. It smells like nothing else; it smells like death.

  I'm holding onto Hershey Bear with my right hand, and touching Daddy with my left. I'd like Mitchell to hold my hand, or hug me, but that's not his way. Same with Mama.

  "Let's go," Mitchell finally says, no doubt so he can cry by himself. Like me.

  We walk out of the room, but I take one last look. Daddy's gone, I wonder if he'll chase the tail lights all the way to heaven. Outside, I look into Ryan's dark eyes, then down the hospital hallway, and he looks different. He smells unusual, like something worse than death.

  "Things is gonna be different now that that miserable bastard is dead," Ryan tells Mitchell and me, while Mama watches, listens, and almost nods in approval.

  I start to say something, but Mama turns her back and leaves us trapped inside tears that she doesn't share. She waddles toward the elevator, and we follow in our zombie state. As we climb in the elevator and start our descent, the fears rise within me as Daddy's soul rises up to heaven, leaving me behind in hell.

  16

  january 1, senior year

  "How are you feeling?"

  I'm a little groggy; it's hard to get my eyes to focus, but I can smell the unmistakable shiny steel odor of a hospital.

  "Christy, it's Anne's father, Dr. Williams," the voice says again.

  The light shining overhead blinds me, as does the whiteness of the room. I try to raise myself up, but I can't move. "What happened?" I remember only the sight of the blood.

  "Anne found you," he says softly. "She called 911, covered you with her coat, and then called me. You cut yourself and went into shock. But the cut wasn't deep. You will be fine."

  Can you laugh in a hospital? Can I laugh at this man who hates me assuring me that I will "be fine." I wonder if he knows exactly how deep my cuts are and how they'll never heal.

  "Anne and your cousin Tommy are outside to see you," he says, and it must be the hospital drugs making me supersensitive, but I hear disapproval in his voice as he makes his way toward the door. "But first, some other people need to speak with you."

  After Dr. Williams leaves, I'm all alone and that seems right. The last time I was in a hospital was the night Daddy died.

  "Ms. Mallory, can I come in?" a voice says on the other side of the curtain.

  I don't want to answer. I'm looking around the room for a glass, a vase, or something to help me finish the job, but there's nothing.

  "Ms. Mallory, do you want me to come back later?" the voice asks again. I'm thinking I would like to come back later: in about ten years, after high school, after college, after I've made all my stupid mistakes and talked some sense into myself.
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  "No, it's okay." More untrue words were never spoken.

  "I'm Mrs. Grayson, a social worker here at the hospital," the woman says as she sits down beside me, clipboard in front of her, her eyes staring into mine. I don't say anything as I take her in: her light blue suit, her dark black skin, and her fake painted smile.

  "Dr. Williams has given you some of the details, right?" she says.

  I nod my head, then instinctively turn away from her, her questions, and her caring.

  "I'm here to help you any way that I can. You can tell me anything, and it doesn't leave here," she says, reaching up and closing the curtain behind her. "Where do you want to start?"

  "I don't," I say firmly, then half smile at her. "Well, can you take these straps off?"

  "Will you promise me you won't try to hurt yourself?" she says, and I nod in agreement. Hurting myself solved nothing. Changing my look solved nothing. There's no solution for me.

  "Do you want to talk about what happened?" she asks, pointing at my bandaged wrist. But they might as well have stitched up my mouth too.

  Mrs. Grayson sits looking at me, waiting for an answer she'll never get. "Christy, I understand if you don't feel like talking now, but you'll need to talk with me or they won't release you. Perhaps I should set up an appointment with your mother for—"

  "My mother's dead. I live with my Aunt Dee," I say, my brain becoming a spinning wheel of lies. I can't stand to think of Mama learning about this; scared to death of not knowing whether she'd be angrier at me for trying to kill myself or for messing it up. "I don't want to talk now."

  "Very well," she says cautiously. "I'll be back later. I know you don't want to talk, but there's a police officer outside. She needs to at least get a statement."