Chasing Tail Lights Read online

  Mrs. Grayson sits with her clipboard on the table next to her, almost knocking over the vase filled with fresh flowers. Even sitting on a couch with the floral design, I still won't open up. "She called me. I agreed to see you instead of her taking you to jail," Mrs. Grayson says, hurling a stone of guilt my way.

  "I'm not going to jail," I say, thinking of the kindness of Ms. Chapman's eyes and acts.

  "I think in some ways you feel like you are in jail, don't you?" she asks awkwardly.

  I scratch my tattooed ankle, then look for a bathroom, but say nothing.

  Mrs. Grayson speaks after more silence. "Why did you get in a fight with this boy?"

  "Because he picked on me," I say flatly.

  "Why what?" I shoot back. I guess some of the fight's adrenaline must still be pumping.

  "Why?" she asks, very calmly.

  "Why did he pick on you?" Mrs. Grayson replies.

  "You'll have to ask him," I say, then look at my watch. "I don't know."

  "You can't do that anymore," Mrs. Grayson says, raising her voice a fraction.

  "Can't do what?" I respond, then defy her again with another quick watch glance.

  "Can't get away anymore with saying 'I don't know,'" she challenges me.

  I look away, staring intently at the bright yellow carpet I've memorized in the months I've seen her. "How would I know why he picks on me?" I ask.

  "Do you have some sort of history with this boy?" she asks as I sink further still.

  "No," I say it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  "Christy, you're lying and we both know it," Mrs. Grayson says as she leans toward me. That nice pleasant smile pasted on her face is missing. "Have you been intimate with this boy?"

  "No." Our pathetic eighth-grade fiasco at his house wasn't about intimacy.

  She leans in closer still. "Was he the one who attacked you at the party?"

  I don't answer with anything other than a headshake about that always off-limits topic.

  "Then why does he pick on you?" She looks ready to shake the answer from me.

  "Okay, fine, we hooked up once and I wouldn't do it again. Seth's hated me ever since."

  "Why not?" It's like she's a dog latching onto a bone; she won't let go.

  I'm suddenly exhausted; I can't fight two battles in one day. "Why not what?" I ask.

  "So, you had sex with this boy once and—"

  "I didn't have sex with him!" I'm angry now.

  "Then what happened? Christy, just tell me what happened," she says softly.

  I finally break down and open up. I tell her about the time in eighth grade when Seth jammed his tongue in my mouth and unzipped his fly. I tell her the names he's called me since then. I tell her the only good thing about Seth was his Great Plains remark that led me to meeting Anne.

  "Christy, you should be very proud," she says, breaking out a rarely seen real smile.

  "Proud?" I ask. I feel dirty reliving and retelling this history of shame.

  "It's hard for people to tell their stories, especially when—"

  "It's their fault," I cut her off.

  Mrs. Grayson looks confused. "It's not your fault, Christy. Is that what you think?"

  "I let him tease me," I admit. "I let him kiss me. I let him—"

  She talks over me. "Christy, you are not at fault. You were victimized."

  I do something I rarely do: I make eye contact with Mrs. Grayson. "What do you mean?"

  "When someone attacks you, whatever the reason, you're a victim. You're not to blame."

  I get ready to respond, but instead I retreat. "What if he would have, you know, been the one?" I ask in a whisper.

  "Been the one who attacked you at the party?" Mrs. Grayson sounds confused.

  "What would happen?" I ask still in a whisper. "What happens to people who do that?"

  "If you pressed charges, then he would probably be arrested. If there was other evidence, the police would collect it," she says, and I'm soaking it all in like a dry hard sponge.

  "And he would go to prison?" I'm talking fast so she can't hear my voice quiver.

  "Rape is a serious crime. I don't know for sure what will happen, but I do know that prison is certainly one very possible result if the person was found guilty," she replies.

  "Would I have to testify in court in front of people like they do on TV?" I ask.

  "If there was no other evidence, probably yes. It would be painful, but you're strong."

  "So, in front of everyone, I would need to tell what I did." I'm back to whispering.

  "Christy, you didn't do anything. Something was done to you. I don't care if it happened in eighth grade or eight days ago. If someone sexually assaults you, it is a crime." Her voice has Ms. Chapman's "you can do it" tone. "If Seth was the one, then I need to report the crime."

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore," I say, rearranging myself on the couch and rubbing my eyes. If I can't see her, then she can't see me.

  "Fine," she says biting back her muted anger. "Then, I want to go back to something else. Let's talk again about that child on the bus. Why do you think it bothered you so?"

  I start to say "I don't know" but instead I feel almost a tingle in my body remembering how even just telling her about Seth was painful, but actually felt good. So I tell her what she wants to hear and what I so badly need to say. "When I saw that child on the bus, I guess I saw myself as I was growing up. I was always crying and reaching out, but my mama was never there," I confess, but feel more frustrated than relieved. I'm angry: angry at myself for holding all this in for so long, for denying it.

  "Is that how you feel now?" Mrs. Grayson asks and then silence swallows us for almost ten minutes. She's not asking more questions; she's letting the silence confront me again.

  "I don't," I reply, then return to my old habit of biting down hard on my bottom lip.

  "Don't feel that way?" Mrs. Grayson leans in again; her hands almost touching mine.

  "No, I don't feel," I say, as cold as a Michigan snowstorm in January.

  Mrs. Grayson looks at me for a moment, sadness in her eyes. "Of course you do."

  "No, no, I don't feel anything!" I shout at her. I stand my perfectly numb body up and knock the perfect vase filled with perfect flowers off her perfect table all over her perfect office.

  She puts her clipboard down, then her pen. She gets up from her chair, no doubt to ask me to leave. How can you help a person who can't or won't help themselves? I don't blame her for rejecting me, but instead she sits down next to me, holds out her arms, and pulls me toward her. As she holds me tight, I stay silent, since there are no words to speak of the unspeakable.

  28

  april 8, senior year

  "Winners never quit and quitters never win."

  Sometimes I think Ms. Chapman throws out all these cliches so we'll run harder to get out of listening to them. I'm trying to pay attention to her post-practice lecture, but I'm having trouble catching my breath. It's my first week of track. Even my numb body is exhausted.

  "Okay, good effort today, better effort tomorrow," she says, then waves us toward the showers, even though I usually go directly home, sometimes not even changing. Although with no one in the house tonight but Ryan and me, I'll take as long as possible to return to Stone Street.

  "Christy, hold up for a second," she says. Everybody else is in great shape and they run off the field, while I'm bent over, feeling like my stomach is about to shoot up through my throat.

  "What is it, Ms. Chapman?" I ask, not yet looking up.

  "Out here, it's Coach," she reminds me.

  "Sorry, I mean Coach Chapman," I say, almost managing to smile.

  "You need to get into shape," she says, then motions me to follow her as she heads back toward the track. "Let's do a cool-down lap together. I want to talk with you about something."

  "I need to get to work," I tell her, but I follow. We run at a steady pace.

  "At the library, right?" she asks
and I nod, not wanting to let on how out of breath I am. "Have you met my sister Ms. Coleman?"

  "She's your sister?" Ms. Coleman is the library director, but I've never met her.

  "Sorority sister," she says, then goes quiet as we run some more. We do another half lap before she speaks again. "So what's the story with you and Seth Lewis?"

  "No story," I say, glad we're next to each other so she can't see the lies in my eyes.

  "I don't believe you," she says. "If you don't want to tell me, that's one thing, but don't lie to me. I can't coach someone I can't trust, so tell me the truth."

  "Sorry, Coach, but it's nothing really," I say. I'm slowing down, since we've made one full lap, but she picks up the pace.

  "Okay," she replies, then lets the silence return. The only sound is my heavy breathing and the crunching of the cinder underneath our feet until she speaks again. "We have a problem."

  "What do you mean?" I avoid her eyes, staring down instead at the new track shoes that Aunt Dee bought for me when I told her I'd finally joined the team, not revealing I was drafted.

  "You still haven't turned in the form from your physical." She's reminding me for at least the tenth time in two days. "You can't be on the team unless you do that. What's the holdup?"

  "Maybe I can't be on the team," I say, getting ready to run home, rather than running another lap and answering twenty more questions.

  "If I have to drive you myself, you'll get this done. You made a deal with me, right?" Ms. Chapman says. "After practice, why don't you call up Anne's father. He's a doctor, right?"

  "I'll take care of it," I say, running faster now, faster than I ever knew I could.

  "But you haven't taken care of it," she says, not even breathing heavily as she keeps up.

  "I promise, next week."

  "No, today, Christy. We'll set up the appointment together," she says. I don't dare fight back. After fighting it for so long, I do want to be on the team and be part of something. I didn't know, however, that taking a physical was part of the deal. I've never had one, and other than New Year's Eve, I haven't seen a doctor in years. They ask too many questions.

  We start another lap. I feel my blood pumping through the veins in my legs, and my memory races to all of the mornings I pushed myself to go to school and not to run away from home. I pushed myself harder than I'm pushing myself even now. "I got into Central Michigan," I say softly, half hoping this, rather than the physical, was what she wanted to talk about in our post-practice practice. No one else knows, since I haven't heard about any necessary scholarships.

  "That's fantastic news!" she says, screeching to a halt, then reaching over to hug me. I take a step back. She seems to understand instantly and pulls away. "I'm very proud of you."

  "I'm not sure how I'll afford it though," I tell her.

  "I have a friend who works in financial aid there," she says. "She's a sister and—"

  "I thought you said she was your friend," I say as we start running again at a slow pace.

  "She's one of my best friends," she says. "She's another sorority sister. You see this?"

  I look over to see her pointing to a necklace that I've noticed she wears all the time.

  "ASA: it stands for Alpha Sigma Alpha," she says with pride in her voice.

  "What's that?"

  "It was my sorority, and it's not all about parties." She's teaching, not talking now. "We believe in intellectual, physical, spiritual, and social development of young women."

  "I didn't know any of this," I say, thinking how I failed in so many of those areas.

  "You'll learn, because if you want, I'll do my best to get you in," she says.

  I nod, then run behind her, with my head weighted down by one question, which I finally, three years too late, get up the nerve to ask. "Ms. Chapman, can I ask you something?",

  "You going to get that physical from Dr. Williams?" she counters with her sealed deal.

  "I promise." I know I can't break this one. I give her my word because I need to hear some important words from her. When she nods, I unload. "Why are you so nice to me?"

  She laughs, but I don't think she's laughing at me. "Christy, I wondered when you were going to ask me that." We slow down the pace so we're more fast walking than running. "I guess I saw a lot of myself in you, let's just say that."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, curious how this beautiful woman sees herself in ugly me.

  "You don't have a daddy at home, right?" she asks. My frown answers for me. "Let me guess, your mama works really hard, but she's tired all the time and she's not there for you. You try hard to be something, but others, maybe in your own family, hold you back. If you make it out, they resent it. You dream of better things, but everybody just treats you like poor white trash, right?"

  I respond with a sigh. I wonder if Ms. Chapman can see through our ripped drapes.

  "That was my life, too, but I made it out. I got through high school, won a track scholarship to Central Michigan, and got a degree. At college, when times were tough, my sorority sisters saved me. But all of that, and everything I've achieved in life, is thanks to my teachers back at Beecher High educating me on two important things," she says, although it sounds like she's singing, the words are jumping so freely. "The first is learning to say no."

  "Saying no?" I ask the woman who refused to take my no for an answer for three years.

  "Saying no to bad choices, to people who keep you down, to people who don't want you to be anything more than they are," she says proudly. "And the other important thing I learned."

  "What's that?" I ask, as I watch Ms. Chapman take off for what my legs hope will be the final lap, although my energized ears and loosened tongue cry out for more.

  "You know, Christy, you know," she replies as we sprint toward the finish line. I'm reaching deep into myself, finding speed and strength that I never knew I had.

  "Winners never quit, and quitters never win," I shout, feeling my lungs about to explode and a deep truth vibrating through my skin and my soul. Coach Chapman laughs, a loud laugh, a winner's laugh, as I chase her around the track one last time without a drop of fear in my eyes.

  29

  Late evening, april 8,

  senior year

  As always, it's not his words that wake me from sleep, it's the smell. My head is facing toward Bree's bed, even though I know she's not there. The room is totally dark. I never make any noise, anymore, which makes the grating sound of a zipper followed by the sound of the condom wrapper tearing open seem even louder. He's not protecting me, he'sjust covering his tracks. Just like some other nights, I think I hear another noise from another room. A hacking cough. Then his full weight is on me. The pain distracts me while my mind implodes on itself He no longer needs to say "I'll kill you" because we both know I'm already dead inside. Yet, the part of me that remains looks down at the floor and realizes, finally: I can run away because my fear no longer ties me to him.

  30

  april 9, senior year

  "Christy, gat me another beer."

  "Sure, Mama," I say, thinking what a bad idea it is to help her nightly habit. I go to the kitchen, get the beer and a big glass of milk for myself, then go back to the living room. My throat is dry from running track two hours after school, then talking with Terrell until bedtime.

  "How come you're sleeping out here?" Mama asks. Ever since I've started track, I've been sleeping in the safe open space of the living room. I don't know why I never thought of this until the past few days. Maybe when all you see are bars, you can't imagine there's any escape. But I'm saying no, even if I'm only taking baby steps.

  "It's cooler here, easier to sleep," I say, then hand Mama her oversize beer.

  "Maybe we can get money for an air-conditioner," Mama says, wiping the sweat off her brow. She looks like I do at track: sweaty and breathing heavily, but for her, it's a constant state.

  "Guess master thief Ryan can't slip one of those under his coat for you."

  "
Don't you talk about your brother that way," Mama snaps back.

  I take my glass of milk and lie down on the floor, stretching my legs out. "Ryan's not my brother. You can call him your son, but he's not my brother."

  "He's blood, so he's your brother. He's my one true good son." I hate that Mama says things like this. "My one good son," she repeats, a sign she's drunk and ready for sleep.

  "Mama, Ryan isn't—"

  "Shut your mouth, girl!" Mama says. "I don't want to hear it."

  "It doesn't bother you that he steals all the clothes that he gives you and—"

  "I don't care if you're eighteen, I'll put you over my knee," Mama says, then lets out one of those loud hacking coughs that shakes the floor. "You hush up about your brother."

  I'm not drunk or ready for sleep, but I repeat myself. "He's not my brother."

  "Listen, all you got in this life is family," Mama says. "You think your friends are gonna be there for you? Think again! Everybody is in it for themselves. Watch your own, I say."

  I'm silent, as the sound of my mother's heavy breathing and coughing fills the room.

  "Like that little slutty friend of yours," Mama continues. "Don't you think she only cares about herself and what's good for her? She's just using Tommy. "

  More silence from me. It feels like my skull is splitting in two as Mama slurs her speech. I'm thinking about Anne slicing open Tommy's life.

  "I know her type, I've seen her type before," Mama says. "Let me guess, she's got a real overprotective father and she's thinking what can I do to get Daddy's attention?"

  I want to tell her to shut up, but I can't bring myself to stop this torrent of possible truth.

  "If she's a good girl, is her daddy going to notice her?" Mama shakes her head, then slugs back the beer. "She's got to be a bad girl, and how better to do that than to date an ex-con?"

  "Mama, that's enough!" I shout, even as I wonder how much truth is wrapped in her beer-infused ranting. Anne loves Tommy, I think; she loves making her dad crazy, I know.