Greta used to bully me all the time. She’d boss me around and if I put up a stink, she’d yell at me. Sometimes she’d steal my favorite toy and hide it. She was worse than when Dad and Shirley would punish me. I’m sure I’ve bullied too. Maybe I’ve even bullied Dara. Bossed her around. Made her feel bad. I don’t know. What things can we forgive? And are there things we just can’t let go of? James, writing to you really digs at my apple core. I know I’m still so mad at Shirley for doing what she did. Maybe I won’t ever forgive her. But being in that support group helps. Maybe that’s why I stay, so I can try to let go of what she did. So I can trust her again.
Sunday, October 24
Ms. Raimondo said that to tell a story, one must start at the beginning. But who remembers that? I couldn’t speak when I began. I can’t remember what my first word was, probably Mom or Dad but certainly not enough vocabulary to tell my story. Or a story.
But Ms. Raimondo said something else, which I guess is why I’m writing this. She said that stories find their meaning once they are written down. You were there that day, weren’t you? When she said that? It meant something because I actually wrote it in my notebook and I’m not really the best note-taker—I usually start and then lose interest—but I wanted to understand it better.
Anyway, I never told anyone about that night. Last March. Maybe if I write it down, I can let go of it. Forgive you, maybe. It was so cold outside, but I had to get out of my house. Shirley had her book club people over. Every month they discussed romance novels as though they are . . . I don’t know . . . works of art or something. But that’s how Shirley met Flor, so I guess good things come out of weird things, right?
Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and it was like the tar was tiptoeing up the stairs, into my bedroom. I piled on a sweater over my long-sleeved shirt and another sweater over that with long thermal underwear beneath my sweatpants and I felt like a polar bear swallowed by another polar bear. Plus, two scarves, my winter coat and my Walkman with a mix tape made by Dara. I remember everything.
“Bored! Gonna take a walk around the block! Be back s—”
“Wait,” interrupted Shirley. “Are you kidding me? It’s freezing out there.”
“I know. I’m bundled. But it reeks of smoke in here and my lungs are screaming. I promise I won’t be gone too long.”
Shirley looked at the others. “Okay, but just around the block and then back,” she said.
I walked out, pushing the headphones over my ears and preparing for some perfectly picked out music to accompany me on my walk.
James, I just realized this was before. Shirley was . . . Mom. Helaine is probably going to think this way too. Before you hung yourself and after.
Here is something to know about my neighborhood. I live on a cul-de-sac. The great part of this is that when I was younger and the thought of playing outside was enough to make me happy, I didn’t have to worry about oncoming traffic when playing catch in the middle of the street. Anyone who drives on our block already lives here. But I decided to make a right turn and travel out of the cul-de-sac, heading toward the ‘shady development’. I titled it this when I first noticed the tall trees turning into each other like clasped fingers. The branches became like an umbrella shading me from the summertime sky when I was zipping away on my bike. In the winter, without all the leaves, they just looked like trees with bad posture, leaning. But it’s my favorite place to bike through in the warmer months. Each house is so different from the other and since the houses are much older and have been there for many decades, the trees are tall and wild.
Anyway, I was listening to the Pixies in my eardrums and feeling like a dragon as my frozen breath escaped me, creating a white smoke from between my chapped lips. I was singing loudly—I remember this—because I was the only one who existed or at least it felt that way. I don’t really know too much about the Pixies, except for the way they make me feel, which is alive and excited. I wonder what music you listen to. Your mom couldn’t remember.
And then I felt something.
“Hey!”
I felt you before I saw you because the music was loud, and I was lost in my thoughts.
“What?”
“Hey, what are you, freak?”
And I remember everything as though it was a movie I was watching, but I was in it. I didn’t know it was you at first, because it was so dark. You were in one of those winter sock hats and your jacket was dark. Actually, everything was dark except for the streetlights that had been illuminating my walk.
I took off my headphones because I was scared and wanted to be alert.
“You go to my school, dyke.”
I kept walking. And if I was a dragon before, I suddenly became Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Although, I wasn’t exactly running, more like power-walking, which is what I do in gym class.
“Am I scaring you, lezzie? I know what you are.”
You were smoking a cigarette.
“Or maybe you’re a fag,” you said. “Which one? Huh? You a dyke or a faggot?”
I could still hear the music blaring through the speakers of my headphones. Of course, I didn’t answer you. I didn’t know what to say. James, you really frightened me. And then, suddenly I was on the ground because you pushed me, pulled at my sleeve, and I fell.
I could hear the crackle of the paper burning up with each suck of your cigarette between your lips, and do you remember what you did next? You blew that smoke right into my face.
Here’s the thing: I’m not going to pretend to be some fearless superhuman. My body was trembling beneath every single layer, and I think my complete silence was due to the fact that every word that wanted to come out was frozen inside me. I’ve never been in a fight before, so I can’t even say if I can pack a mean punch or not. There was that time Heather S. thought I was staring at her boyfriend in Spanish class last year and she told me she was going to beat me up after school. I was terrified of the day ending. I wound up hiding in the library until I knew all the buses had left and then called Shirley from the payphone to pick me up. Yes, I was staring, but only because I thought his jean vest was so cool and I was trying to read the pins he had on the back. Anyway, maybe I’ve got a badass boxer living inside me, but I wasn’t exactly in the frame of mind to figure it out that night.
You said some other stuff that for some reason I blocked out and then. You. Spit. On. Me.
You were so close to me that I could feel your hot breath on my neck. I remember you kind of smelled like Vick’s VapoRub.
“My dad, he . . . he wants me to be everything he is. Go to church, pray every single day. It’s bullshit. He wants me to be real . . . you better not tell anyone about this, dyke.”
And then you spat on me once more and I could taste the tobacco in your saliva on my skin. So gross.
I always wondered if you were afraid I’d tell. Or if you even cared. And I’m not sure why I didn’t. I guess I didn’t know how to tell it. I guess I was afraid that if I said the words out loud that you called me, they would become more real. What I really wanted to ask you was: how did you know?
I have lived in this neighborhood for most of my life. We moved here when I was six and everyone on my block pretty much knows each other’s business. The Fiore’s live next door and when Gabby, who is one grade above me, found her father french-kissing her mother’s best friend, everyone found out. It’s kind of like a game of telephone, where the real story rarely remains in its original form. But in this particular case, her father really did have an affair, and now I think they are having an open