Chasing Tail Lights Page 7

  "Come on, Chill!" Ryan shouts, removing his hand from me. He walks over closer now to Mitchell, shouting and probably spitting right into Mitchell's face. "Bust one out, bitch."

  Mitchell screams, then dives into Ryan, grabbing his legs and they crash onto the floor. Mitchell's glasses, and the notebook, go flying. Ryan throws a couple of hard punches into Mitchell's head, but they don't seem to have any effect as Mitchell clutches onto Ryan's legs.

  "What's going on in there?" Mama's rough voice shouts from the hallway. I want to shout back at her: why is your hearing so good only some of the time? When Ryan hears her voice, he manages to get his legs free and rolls away from Mitchell, laughing the entire time.

  "Just TV wrestling," Ryan says, resting his back against a closet door. Even though he's breathing heavily, it's not enough to force the smirk from his face. Mitchell's got a trickle of blood coming from his forehead, dripping down onto the already stained RFC uniform.

  Mama emerges from the hallway, angry at being woken up from her nap. She's already in her green home health aide uniform, getting ready for an overnight shift. Her eyes are heavy, as is her voice. She lights up a cigarette and stares at us all. "Mitchell, what are you doing?"

  Mitchell looks quickly at me, but in speed of light time, I manage to avoid his stare. Ryan dusts himself off, steps over Mitchell, grabs his coat, and heads out into the night, like nothing happened. Mitchell, too, remains silent as he heads toward the bathroom; lucky for him the mirror is broken so he can't see his wet eyes. I pick up the notebook, feeling ashamed to have stared into Mitchell's means of escape. His notebook isn't his planning; it was his book of dreams.

  When Mitchell comes out of the bathroom maybe ten minutes later, his eyes are red and his steps are heavy as he makes his way toward his room, which isn't really his own personal private space anymore, as Ryan just demonstrated. I bury my face into my book, so we don't have to talk about what just happened. There's a lot of that at the Mallory house on Stone Street.

  "He's got no right," Mitchell says, then sits down near me. His voice is soft, to avoid waking Mama and her rejection. Like me, he knows that Mama's asleep even when she's awake.

  "I know," I add weakly.

  Mitchell throws his head back, looks at the ceiling, and up to heaven. He'll probably pray harder than ever at church tomorrow. "That notebook was none of his business, you know."

  I reach beside me, grab Mitchell's dream book and fantasy life, and hand it back to him, although we both know it can never ever be returned to what it was. It's a dirty secret now.

  He takes it from me, never making eye contact, then whispers, "It just takes my mind off stuff. I know I'm not going to be anything more than this." He points at his fugly RFC costume.

  "Mitchell, don't talk that way." I try to assure him, but who am I to talk? He's at least got both a dream and a plan. He's got a shot at escaping; all I have are tail lights to follow.

  "What gives him the right!" he says, tearing the cover off the notebook.

  "Mitchell, don't—" I shoot back, asking him to save this bit of himself, but to no avail.

  He's breathing heavy as he tears up the pages of the blue notebook into smaller and smaller pieces. I watch in stunned and sad silence as the scraps of black ink, white paper, and gold-record dreams fall like dirty snow onto the carpet. One of us will pick up these dreams now turned to trash, look at the torn pieces, then throw them out with the rest of the garbage filling our lives.

  sixth grade, november

  "He scares me."

  "Ryan?" I say to Mitchell, who just nods.

  With Daddy dead, Robert on the streets, and Mama now working two jobs, Ryan's become a real menace. That's what Mitchell and I are talking about on the swings behind Cody School late on a Saturday night. We probably shouldn't be out this late; people might say it isn't safe, but they should come to our house and see the people Ryan's invited in.

  "He's just so big, you know," Mitchell says, but it's more than just that. Although Mitchell is only one grade behind me, he seems younger. While he's shorter, Mitchell already weighs more than I do and is getting fat like Mama. Like me, he'd rather read or watch TV than hang out with kids on the block. That's okay for girls, but it gets him teased a lot by other boys.

  I swing a little higher. "I know, I know," I say, then push myself higher still.

  "He's always busting me," Mitchell says, and I know how upset he is. There's not a lot he can do when Ryan makes fun of him for being big, wearing glasses, and being a good student. Mitchell never cries when it happens; he just disappears into himself a little deeper each day. About the only time I see him laugh anymore is when he and Cousin Tommy get together.

  "You tell Mama?" I ask, even though I know the hard-fact answer.

  "I tried, but...," he fades off, then swings himself higher. We don't know why, but Mama seems to think Ryan can do no wrong. Both Mitchell and I have tried to tell Mama about Ryan teasing us, about his low-life friends, but she gets mad at us, not at him. Like a child, Mama wants to play pretend. We realize there's nothing more to say, so we swing higher, at least pretending we're happy.

  "Let'sgo," I tell Mitchell after a while, knowing we shouldn't be out this late, knowing that Flint streets aren't really safe for a fifth and sixth grader to be walking on an hour before midnight, but also knowing there's no place else to go but a home that doesn't feel like home anymore. There's no trace of Daddy left at all, save my Hershey Bear and all my best memories. Right after Daddy died, Mama put up photos of Ryan's long-gone father.

  "Hey, little girl," Ryan says the second Mitchell and I walk through the front door. It's Ryan's new standard greeting for me and I hate it. Anger flashes in my pale green eyes, but it has no effect. He just laughs, which causes his three friends to laugh even louder Mitchell takes advantage of Ryan's distraction and rushes to his room before Ryan can insult him.

  "Pass her the pipe," one friends says, and they all laugh. A stoned, stupid laugh. I know better than to smoke weed, just by looking at the glassy eyes and stupid grins of these four guys.

  "Don't you wanna wrap your lips around Cyrus's pipe?" another of Ryan's friends says, getting a bigger laugh. These guys are all Ryan's age and they're all dressed alike, with big basketball shirts, new bright-white kicks, and black pants showing off rather than covering their asses. I sense from the hard looks, numerous tattoos, and the rank odor of weed, that these three guys, like Robert and now Ryan, don't just look the part of thug, they live it.

  "Cyrus, pass it over," another says. Like Ryan, Cyrus is wearing new sharp threads. Ryan doesn't have a job, but he's always got new clothes. He's always bringing home clothes for Mama, while all I seem to bring her is trouble and tears. No wonder she likes him better.

  "Bitch, Cyrus is talking to you," Ryan shouts at me. He's high, which is nothing new, but since Mama's working tonight, he figures he can hide it from her and stay the perfect son.

  Staring down at the dirty carpet, I head toward my room to be alone. Mitchell asked if he could move into my room with me and away from Ryan, but Mama won't allow it.

  "Couple more years and that girl's going to be fine," Cyrus says to Ryan, but for my benefit. The other friends all laugh the loudest yet, but Ryan just leers at Cyrus, then at me.

  "No, she's an ugly bitch now and she's always gonna be an ugly bitch,"Ryan says, directed at me, not Cyrus. When Cyrus starts to laugh, though, Ryan turns on him, putting his finger right in his face. "But ifyou ever touch her, I'll cap your ass."

  I race to my room, realizing there's no state of mind beyond the sadness I feel. If earlier tonight I could swing no higher, now I feel I can fall no farther. As I crawl into bed, I pull the blanket over me, but I don't disappear, nor does the clatter from the other room. After an hour of loud TV, louder shouting, and loudest laughing, the noise in the living room finally stops, and I hear the front door slam a few times. I close my eyes tight, welcoming the silence, and try to sleep. My days are so sad without Daddy an
ymore that I welcome every night's slumber.

  I awake slowly, struggling to figure out what woke me up. Was it the sound of footsteps outside my door? Was it the light from the door opening in the middle of the night?

  "Who is it?" I ask, but there's no response. I don't have a clock in my room, but it seems too early for Mama to be home. When she comes home, her loud coughing almost always wakes me up. It could be Robert, but he's rarely seen anyplace but in his room downstairs.

  "Mitchell?" I whisper, but again there's no response.

  I pull the blanket up tighter.

  The light grows brighter and the door opens a little more, but I don't need my eyes or my ears, because the smell invades my nose.

  "Good night, little girl," Ryan says, sticking his head in the room. His massive frame fills the doorway, blocking out the light. He stands there, his nearly black eyes piercing the darkness.

  I don't say anything. I'll just pretend I'm asleep. I grab my favorite stuffed animal, Hershey Bear, and squeeze it. It was the best Christmas present ever from my Daddy. I hold it tight, wishing it wasn't a stuffed animal, but a magic lamp. Then I could rub the lamp and make not a genie, but Daddy appear out of a puff of smoke. Maybe that smoke would mask Ryan's foul odor. Maybe Daddy could be here to tell Ryan to never set foot at my door again.

  He laughs, then leaves the door open. I hear the warped floorboards in the hall groan as he walks away. I think about telling Mama about this, about how Ryan talks to me, but like we talked about at Cody, Mitchell and I know it's no use. I thought for a while that Ryan had one of those split-personality things like you see on TV. He's one person when Mama is around, all obedient and flattering, but another when she's gone. No wonder she doesn't believe us when we tell her things. Mama's living a hard life, and anything we tell her just adds to that burden.

  I try falling back asleep, but it's hard with all the noise that Ryan is making in the bathroom next to my room. He's in therefor a long time and it sounds like he's gasping for breath. Finally, I hear the toilet flush, the door close, and his heavy steps walk away from my room. The light from the hall shines through the still-open door, and I can't fall back to sleep. It is a realization, not the light that blinds me. I pull Hershey Bear closer and wish the heat in the house would kick on, since the chill isn't running down my spine, but all through my body as it all makes sense: Ryan isn't a person with two personalities; he's just a person without one human soul.

  10

  november 24, senior year

  "So how goes that CMU application?"

  I look up from the school lunch line to see Ms. Chapman standing across from me. Her plate contains a colorful green salad, while I stare down at drab yellowish brown cheese fries.

  "Okay," I say, paying for my shitty meal with money from selling Ryan's shit at school to some kids who probably think I'm shit. That justice is as sweet as the can of Coke on my tray.

  "You haven't started it, have you?" Ms. Chapman says softly, yet I can still hear her through the crazy lunchroom racket that is Southwestern feeding time. Between the laughter, the shouts, and the regular rapping, it's a wonder I can hear anything, but somehow my hearing is supersensitive, day or night, while my vision remains poor regardless of the hour.

  "No," I say as my face melts like the gooey cheese covering my fries.

  "I want you to come by after school today," she says. We're holding up the line, but it doesn't seem to matter to her at all. I'm terrified at all the pissed-off eyes behind me.

  "I have to work," I tell her.

  "The library, right," she says, although I don't recall telling her about my job.

  "Right, so I haven't had time—"

  "Make it," she says sharply, and it dulls my resistance to her offer of help.

  "Okay," I say, then hurry off to meet up with Anne for conversation, and Glen for business. I manage to keep my eyes in front of me, never looking to see Ms. Chapman walk away in a huff, even though I'm sure she looks beautiful and perfect even when angry. I'm glad I didn't see the disappointment in her face, just as I'm glad she didn't see the blank Central Michigan application untouched but no doubt crushed at the bottom of my backpack. I asked for Mama's help filling it out, but it never happened. I don't want to ask Anne, since she helps me so much already, and I'd be too embarrassed to ask Glen. I could see one of the school counselors, like Ms. Pfeil, but the counselors don't just help with college plans, they also organize peer counseling and all of that kind of stuff. I don't want them looking into my past, my present, my future, or my family. I make my way through the halls, my stomach sick from the smell of the fries and the taste of disappointment.

  "So, do you think he's gay or what?" Anne says before I can even grab some floor space.

  "Who?" I shoot back at Anne, a perfect owl impersonation as I sit down with her at our usual perch outside the theater. I'm eating the fries one at a time, letting the salt-grease combo linger in my mouth and shoot instant after-lunch sleepiness through my over-shocked system.

  "Mr. McDonald," Anne replies.

  "Not biting?" I say, although the disappointment shows in her face. For despite her best efforts, she's failed to capture Mr. McDonald's attention and has chosen to move on. She said she even tried thonging him and showing him her dragon tattoo, but he didn't take the bait.

  "Maybe he and Glen were meant for each other," Anne says, then winks.

  "Glen isn't gay." I counter Anne's new excuse for Glen's lack of interest in me, or her, as anything other than a friend. Glen's been my crush for so long, not that I can bring myself to do anything to move from friendship to courtship. Not doing anything is a pretty good way of avoiding disappointment or hurt: you want or expect nothing, then you'll never fail or feel like a screwup. There's something comforting in the pain you know rather than the pain you don't.

  "He probably loves Juliet," I say, pointing at Rani Patel, who is talking to Mr. McDonald. She's playing Juliet in the school play, opposite my Romeo. She's cast in high school as the most beautiful girl at Southwestern, a title she proudly claims and shows off. While almost every boy at school would love to study her anatomy, Glen says they have no chemistry at all on stage, while my attraction to Glen defies the laws of physics.

  "Hey, Christy," Glen says, tapping me on the shoulder, which scares and soothes me.

  "Hey, Glen," I say as Anne breaks out in giggles.

  He shows me a twenty-dollar bill, so we walk together to the back of the theater. I open up my backpack and pull out a brown paper lunch bag. I unroll the layers of aluminum foil from the sandwich-shaped square, and then hand Glen his weekly purchase of Ryan's product in a small plastic bag. Aunt Dee, Tommy, and Mitchell would kill me if they knew about this.

  "Thanks," he says, and I feel my feet lift off the ground as I look into his eyes. He snatches my glance, staring back at me. Anything is possible. If not now, then when?

  "How's the play going?" I ask.

  "It goes," he says, tucking the plastic bag into a thick book he's hollowed out. How he could treat a book like that hurts me, but not enough to say anything against Glen.

  "Rani Patel is just terrible," Glen says. "She may look the part, but she can't act it."

  "Why's that?" I ask, leaning in closer, hoping the hairs on our arms might touch.

  "She's so stuck on herself," he says with anger, while rearranging the contents of his backpack for maximum protection. I nod my head at his comment, not that he noticed. In fairness, Glen himself is not immune to ego deficiency. I know he's both dreaming and planning for big things. I imagine him on the cover of magazines, appearing on TV talk shows, or starring in movies. I dream that I'm by his side as we're walking down the red carpet as the flashbulbs blind us. I think about being interviewed, telling the story of how the two of us met, ignoring these dirty dealings, and instead painting a different picture. If I'm going to tell myself lies, I might as well invent the best ones. Yet, I can't imagine it all. I can imagine Glen and me getting married; I see the f
amily pictures of us with our beautiful children; I see us loving our children, but not the loving act of conceiving them. I have lots of dreams, but never any fantasies.

  "Well, Rani is beautiful," I state the obvious, just to injure my deflated ego even more.

  "And she always wants the two of us to rehearse together, just the two of us."

  I frown, hating her for being so clever and me so consumed with fear. "Why?"

  "She thinks we need to work together more. I know that I need to rehearse more in order to learn my lines, but not with her. I need to find—" but before he can finish, Anne's mantra of "take action" shouts from memory past my shy meter and out of my mouth.

  "I could rehearse with you," I say in less than a whisper.

  He pauses for a second that feels like an hour to me. "I don't know."

  "I understand if you don't want to," I say, taking a step back. "I don't really—"

  "Oh, it's not you. I think it could be fun," he says, laughing, then pantomiming like he was smoking a joint. "We couldn't tell Rani, though."

  "I'm good at keeping secrets," I say with far too much modesty.

  "I also probably couldn't tell my girlfriend," he says as my heart breaks.

  "Your girlfriend," I mouth the words.

  "She's at Northern. You'd like her," he says, but he's not looking at me. He's studying the simple patterns on the hall floor, while I'm listening to the complex quiver in his voice.