Chasing Tail Lights Page 14

  "I can't," I say softly, wishing there was another slice of pizza to fill my mouth. The four of us are having dinner at Aunt Dee's, so I don't have to be at home with the commotion of Ryan's so-called friends watching football and creating a mess that I'll need to clean tomorrow. Anne and Tommy are sitting next to each other, holding hands, and sharing those silly in-love looks. Bree's upstairs, curled up in Aunt Dee's bed reading books from the library. Mama's at the Detroit casinos, while Mitchell's spending his Sunday praying to God, frying chicken, and studying science, hoping one of the three will save him.

  "I don't like keeping secrets, especially from family," Aunt Dee whispers to me, even if she's engaged with the rest of us in this conspiracy of silence against Mama.

  I slowly swallow some Coke, which gives Tommy time to fill the silence. "She's going to find out when the hospital bill comes," he says all serious, then winks at his mom. "Go ahead and tell her, Christy. Moms always find out the bad stuff anyway."

  "That bill's been taken care of," Aunt Dee says softly to Tommy, contradicting her earlier statement: families do keep secrets. It was Aunt Dee, not Mama, who met me at the hospital and arranged with the hospital to pay the bill. Aunt Dee also covered for me with Mama, telling her I'd spent those days at her house. Mama doesn't need to know about what I did. My loud, lonely cry for help stayed a secret to most. But for all of her gentleness, Aunt Dee can be tough: she made me agree to see Mrs. Grayson and to take the medication another doctor prescribed. Like most things, I've turned my words into a half-truth. I see Mrs. Grayson, but I don't say anything. I sit there with my arms crossed over my heart, biting my bottom lip and playing with my tongue stud in order to keep my mouth shut and my mind tuned to a different wavelength. I'm seeing Mrs. Grayson, but I'm just not letting her look into my life.

  "Hey, Tommy, how's college?" I say, turning the attention to a safer place. Tommy started classes at Baker College last week, in their physical therapy program.

  "It's hard, but I'll make it," Tommy says confidently.

  "How can you be so sure?" I ask, wondering if there's a magic formula for self-belief.

  "I've survived worse. I'll get along just fine," he replies, then starts clearing the dishes from the table. I know he's talking about his time in juvy, which is a subject he doesn't like to touch on. Remembering the past, Tommy says, is to relive it, and reliving it is just too hard. He says he won't forget what happened, but by forgiving himself and those other kids, it frees him.

  Anne's silent. She doesn't know what Tommy's talking about, but I'm under orders from Tommy to remain mute—like that's so hard—about his crime. He'll tell Anne when she's ready to hear it. Yet another conspiracy of silence in our small, splintered, screwed-up family.

  "Let me help," I say, but Tommy waves me off. He knows I clean up enough at home.

  "I'll pass; I clear too many tables at work," Anne says, then laughs.

  "How's your boss?" I ask, but Anne shoots me a look. Her boss remains a problem, but one that Tommy doesn't know about. He's left the room with the dirty dishes, but I bet she's afraid of what he might hear or what he might do to her boss. I swallow my words, as my head fills with thoughts of how all of us would rather suffer in silence than talk about the things that shame us. It's as though if we don't mention the shackles around our ankles, then no one else will notice them.

  "Speedy, it's gonna be fine—end of story," she says firmly.

  "Why do you call her Speedy?" Aunt Dee asks, my secret name revealed. I wince: this is like when Mitchell's fantasy life as "the Chill" was exposed, but not as devastating. Even though I gave Mitchell a new blue notebook for Christmas, I doubt if he can return to those illusions that used to sustain him. What Ryan took from him that day, another notebook can't replace.

  "Because the school's track coach thinks she could be a superstar!" Anne offers.

  "Christy, I didn't know you ran track," Aunt Dee says.

  "I don't," I say firmly, to put the matter to rest, if only Ms. Chapman would.

  "I did sports in high school. I played basketball, but I've got to admit that I wasn't very good," Aunt Dee says, and it strikes me as odd. She's the most successful member of our family, so I can't picture her not being good at something.

  "Tell them how many points you scored," Tommy shouts from the kitchen.

  "Forty points!" Aunt Dee replies.

  "In one game?" Anne asks.

  "No, over four years!" Aunt Dee says quickly, and we all laugh. "Well, that's not totally true. I actually tipped in a basket once for the other team, so maybe my career totals should be thirty-eight or maybe forty-two points."

  "My mother was the Shaq of her generation!" Tommy shouts. I can sense his smile even from the other room. He and his mom get along; add Tommy to my envy-hate list.

  "But I was a star. Think about it: all those girls God blessed with natural talent, it came easy to them, and while there wasn't the WNBA then, they knew they might be rewarded somehow for their skills," Aunt Dee says, sounding a lot like Ms. Chapman. "But girls like me, who went to every practice, did our best with the ability God gave us, and came off the bench only for a few minutes so the best players could rest. I think we were the real stars of the team. How much dedication does it take to show up when you're already a starter?"

  "None," I answer.

  "But how much dedication does it take when you were like me, abenchwarmer, who will never start, never star, and not even play enough to get a letter. I don't care if I scored forty points or four points; you ask me, I was one of the stars of that team!"

  "I would have just quit," I mumble.

  Aunt Dee shakes her head, half in anger and half in humor. "That's Ryan talking, not—"

  "Speedy," Anne says.

  "Here's to Speedy Mallory!" Tommy says, coming in from the kitchen, holding up his glass. Everybody holds their glasses up, and for once, being the center of attention feels good. This feels like home, and I wish it was.

  As Tommy, Anne, and Aunt Dee talk, laugh, then talk more, I melt in the seat, thinking about our Christmas visit with Robert a few weeks ago. Meds or no meds, there are also some memories, dreams, and plans that I can't let go of.

  senior year, january

  "Robert aren't you scared?"

  It's a stupid question to ask Robert, but I can't resist it. While this is our late Christmas visit, there's certainly no telling the season from the cold concrete of Jackson State Prison. This is a place without seasons; time doesn't stand still, it just doesn't exist. The air isn't filled with holiday spirit. I'm almost choking on the thick dust that swirls in the air and the stale smell of the cracked gray floor in the visitor's area. The rest of the family waits in the parking lot. I've stayed behind, but I'm not sure why. Robert was never a brother to me, or part of the family. He was always for himself and by himself.

  "I ain't scared of shit," Robert replies, then runs his hand over his now bald head, He looks so strange in the ugly orange-and-blue MDOC outfit; stranger to see him look so small, but that's a trick of the grayish light filtering in through the small barred window.

  "Bree misses you," I remind him, "You should write her."

  "I know," he says, while I swallow hard. It was a dumb thing to say. Robert can barely read or write, one of many reasons he bailed on school like his daddy bailed on him. I don't know how he and I could be so different just because we have different dads. "You watch her."

  "You watch yourself in here," I say, trying to add some gentleness to the harsh air.

  "No problem," Robert says, looking around the room. "You tell Mitchell to keep his shit together and not to end up here. If he does, I'll fucking kill him when he gets here."

  I nod, more than eager to pass along Robert's death-threat warning, if that's what it takes to save Mitchell from taking the same road and saves us from taking the same trip to Jackson over and over. "I'llgive Mitchell the message."

  "Lot of dead men already in here, "Robert says, but he's smiling, like it's f
unny.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, my knowledge of prison life limited to watching the movie The Shawshank Redemption on TV, although I doubt now I'd watch it the same way again.

  "Two kinds of guys don't live long in here, and I ain't either," Robert says, that cocky swagger back in his voice. "Stupid fuckers who snitch end up dead."

  He pauses to look around the room, before he looks at me. "Who else?" I ask, "Baby rapers," he says. "Anybody touch Bree like that, I'd break outjust to kill 'em."

  "But Robert, wouldn't you just get into more trouble?" His loud laughter stops me dead.

  "I'm in hard-ass Jackson State Prison. I'm probably never getting out." He rubs his right hand against his chest and leaves it lying over his heart, a muscle he rarely exercised on the outside. "What are they going to do? You can't kill someone who's already dead."

  "But Robert—" But before I can say another word, a loud ear-busting buzzer goes off. I say good-bye, then walk with the family members visiting other prisoners as we exit back to the free world. It's so cold you can see, smell, and taste your icy breath. The air out here, although frozen, still makes you feel alive. I keep my head down and make sure not to talk to anyone as I try to find Ryan, Mama, Mitchell, and Bree. As I watch the other visitors climb into their cars, I can't help but wonder if one of them will come back next week to find their man dead. Dead because he ratted or someone found out he raped children. Robert's right, you can't kill a person who is already dead, but he should have added something about the other set of marked men inside those walls: you can't really murder a person who doesn't even deserve to live.

  19

  january 23, senior year

  "Nobody knows, are you sure?"

  Anne and I are walking from school at the end of the day. We're headed toward the parking lot, not the bridge. It's not just the arctic weather keeping us from chasing tail lights and getting high, but Anne told me that Tommy's pressuring her to stop getting stoned. It's too bad Anne can't tell her dad this fact, then he could find at least one thing that he likes about Tommy. The list of what he doesn't like is long; no doubt his relationship to me topping the list.

  "Not that I've heard," Anne replies, blowing on her hands to keep warm. We're talking about the New Year's Eve party, my disappearance, and the broken mirror. Anne's listening for gossip, but it seems nobody knows—or maybe cares—about my stupid desperate act.

  "That's good news," I say, knowing the bad news, that I have an appointment with Mrs. Grayson in about an hour. Aunt Dee's threatening to tell Mama if I don't keep showing up for these appointments. Since Aunt Dee is more a mother to me than Mama, I can't afford to get any further on her bad side. I've taken a step in that direction by helping Anne and Tommy hook up; a coupling Aunt Dee's not thrilled with either. She wants Tommy focused on his future, not on anyone in his present. I'll keep my word to Aunt Dee and see Mrs. Grayson, but that doesn't mean I have to say anything. Just like I won't talk to Officer Kay, who called to press me about pressing charges. I told Officer Kay the same true story: Glen didn't touch me, and I don't want to talk with her. All these people say they want to listen, but none of them hear what I say.

  Anne shoots me a little half smile, which breaks out into a full-blown energy-generating grin when Tommy's old Toyota pulls into the parking lot with music thumping through closed windows. "Sure you don't want a ride?" she asks through lips ready to be kissed by my cousin.

  "I'm good," I say, which is only half true. I'm not good about Anne riding to and from school with Tommy most days. I'm not good about him spending time with Anne that used to be mine. I'm not good about Anne getting close to a member of my family. I've kept a lot of stuff from Anne, best friend or not, so I'm not good about her knowing more about me.

  "He's so cool," Anne says, giving my too-thin-for-winter jacket a pinch. "I owe you."

  I laugh, thinking how much money I owe Anne from the past three years, thinking how maybe I owe her my life for following me at the party when she saw me race out, and thanking her for being a better friend to me than I've ever been to her. "No charge."

  "Hey Cuz," Tommy yells at me out of the rolled-down window. "Jump on in!"

  I shake my head, shoot them a big wave, then walk down toward the city bus stop on Twelfth Street in front of school. As they drive past, Anne already cuddled against his chest, I feel like splitting down the center. Seeing the two of them together, I feel so left out. I feel so alone. Yet, no more than three weeks ago, I did something really stupid because I just wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to die; I just didn't want to live in the foul air that I was breathing.

  While the air still stinks, I feel I can breathe again. Three weeks into my meds, I don't feel like I'm walking on a road full of trapdoors anymore. I don't feel much better, but I don't feel much worse: the door to despair seems stuck. It took falling as far as I did, as well as finally seeing a doctor, which I haven't done for years, to realize I had options. When you're so used to having no power in your life, the idea of making changes is blacked out. I don't have to worry about one possible side effect of these meds, loss of sex drive, since I've never had one.

  The bus toward downtown is pretty crowded, but I find a vacant seat in the middle. It's hot and loud, so I unzip my jacket and open up my mind. I remember dreaming about Glen sitting next to me on a bus, in a car, or at school, but I know now it's only dream. Deep down, I guess I always knew he was too smart, too funny, too popular, too handsome, too rich, and also too normal to be with someone like me, but the dream kept me going. It was also a safe dream: dreaming a dream of the unreachable means you'll always want, but never really fail. But Glen is a lost dream now: I can't ever speak to him again. I'm so embarrassed and ashamed that if I see him at school, I'll walk in the other direction. He doesn't want to talk to me either: just like Romeo and Juliet, our ending is tragic, full of misunderstandings, with a bloody final scene.

  "Hey FUBU," a voice says. I'm wearing one of Robert's old FUBU shirts, since the sleeves are long enough to carefully cover up the last remains of the scars on my wrist.

  I look up to see that the voice belongs to Seth Lewis, standing over me, then sitting next to me.

  "So, Christy, I always wondered, what does FUBU stand for?" He pushes against me.

  "Leave me alone," I say, almost wincing in pain from his mere presence.

  He presses closer against me. The rotten apple smells still cling to him after all these years. "Let me guess; FUBU stands for "fucked up bitch ugly."

  I want to get out of the seat, but I'm pinned against the side of the bus. His leg is blocking any chance of escape. I can't fight back; I can't answer; I can't do anything but beg for him to stop, which makes me even more powerless. "Please, Seth, leave me alone."

  "I keep thinking, you've had six years to change your mind, but I guess not," Seth says, pressing against me, almost talking in my ear. "Maybe it means "furry untrimmedbush."

  "Leave me alone," I say loudly. There are other people on the bus from our school. Several look over, but none of them move a muscle to help me.

  "I see Anne getting all lovey-dovey with that guy. I heard he's your cousin, so I guess you and Anne aren't cleaning each other's carpets. Too bad, 'cause I'd pay to watch some of that action."

  "Let me go or else." I'm chewing on my almost healed bottom lip again.

  "Or else what?" He's not backing down.

  "Or else," and then I stop because there is no or else. There is nothing to do but run. I take a deep breath, then push against him. He's surprised that I'm fighting back at all. He's more amused than angry, so rather than holding me back, he lets out a loud laugh as I crawl over him. He puts his fat hand on my ass as I escape. I pull the cord, then run toward the front of the bus. I don't know where I'm getting off, but it's got to be a better place than this.

  "FUBU! I got it," I hear Seth yell at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear.

  "Please, stop now!" I beg the driver.

  "Christy is
a frigid uptight bitch ultimately!" Seth shouts as I exit the bus.

  I walk the half mile toward Mrs. Grayson's office, stopping long enough at the downtown Halo Burger to throw up the remains of my lunch, wishing Seth's face was in the toilet. The detour makes me late, which means less time sitting in silence in the brightly colored waiting room. I sign some papers, then sit with my head almost hanging between my knees, Seth's insults hanging around my neck like a stone, and my ugly coat hanging on a gold antique rack. A few minutes go by before Mrs. Grayson opens a door, then says, "Come in, Christy."

  She's dressed in another blue suit, complete with pearls. I sit my torn-blue-jean-Seth-infected ass down on her colorful couch covered with flower patterns. There are flowers in a vase, as well as a picture of sunflowers on her wall next to all the diplomas.

  "Christy, how are you today?" she asks, and smiles. She doesn't know that not only do I live on Stone Street, I'm made of it. I will not speak or cry or crack. "Would you like some water?"

  I shake my head. My eyes are cataloging her brightly lit office, not catching her stare.

  "Well, we need to know each other a bit better," she says, then opens up a big black notebook. She could use a Post-it note for all that I plan to tell her.

  "Why don't we start by you just telling me a little bit about yourself," she says.

  "I don't know," I mutter at a barely audible volume.

  "What do you mean you don't know? You don't know anything about yourself?"

  I understand the question, but that doesn't mean I'll answer it, so I say, "I don't know."

  And it goes on like that for another half hour with her asking me question after question, lecturing a little in between about how I need to answer, telling me she knows what I must be feeling, always followed by more questions. When she says we're done for the day, I let out a loud sigh of relief, which causes her to ask, "Christy, are you going to talk to me at all?"