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 relationship or something.
When Shirley set off the fire alarm because of her cigarettes, the fire trucks came. Oh man, they all couldn’t wait to feast on that gossip. It wasn’t the first time she fell asleep with one lit. I don’t even want to talk about that.
David Werzloski moved into the house at the corner two years ago. In second grade, he showed me his penis. Just pulled his pants down right in the middle of Mrs. Rossi’s math lesson and I couldn’t believe how wrinkly it was, kind of like a crumpled-up fruit roll-up.
And Rachel, Tina and Tiffany live three houses away with their parents and new dog named Rover. The Pashmis across the street. The Jacobs. The Gowers. The McDonnells. The Goldbergs. Dara and her family live about six houses down. There are more boys than girls on our street. The Goldbergs have triplet boys who are Gret’s age. One enlisted in the army, the other two went to some college in Oregon, I think.
My point. My point is that I feel like we all know each other in some way. I’ve trick-or-treated at everyone’s house. Beyond just this cul-de-sac, all the streets connect. I sold Girl Scout cookies when I was briefly a Brownie, just until I got to go to Sesame Place. Then, I decided I didn’t like being called a dessert that I couldn’t even eat because during that time Shirley prohibited sweets from our house. I’ve been to sleepovers and played Monopoly in these houses and swam in their pools and went to Halloween parties and even accompanied Shirley to a Tupperware party one evening at one of these homes.
When you pushed me, I stopped feeling safe. I was so afraid to go to school that Monday, but you acted like nothing even happened. Didn’t address me or taunt me or anything like that. Actually, I feel like that was the last time you ever bullied me.
Monday,
