in red, leather, Mary Jane sandals. We are late for school. My brothers yell over their shoulders, “Keep up!” I am always slow. I am holding them back. My legs hurt. My backpack is heavy. It keeps hitting me in the head as I run.
They disappear through a gate into a stranger’s backyard. They have told me about this shortcut to school before, but I’ve never taken it. I open the gate. I have to make it across the backyard and to the fence. I hear a dog barking. It sounds like a mean dog with a big, low, deep bark. I put my head down and run. The dog barks and barks. I make it to the fence. I feel the chain links dig into my palms. My feet slip as I climb, but I make it to the top. My shirt catches on the top of the fence, but there is no time to loosen it. I hear a screen door open behind me.
The owner is coming out of his house. He is walking toward me, across the yard, yelling, “Hey!” There is not time to untangle my shirt. I swing both legs over and jump. My shirt rips. I land on my feet, then fall forward. My backpack and its weight push my body into the pavement. I taste blood. Then I hear the man yelling, “Hey! You!” I am up, running away from the yard, looking for my brothers. I can see the top of Derek’s head as he’s running behind the row of parked cars. He is crossing the street now. The light is yellow. I am running so fast my eyes water. I blink back the tears and lean forward. I make fists with my hands to pump my arms the way Jake showed me to. I run faster, faster. I make it before the light turns red, before the cars rush past me. Jake and Derek are standing there, smiling. Jake says, “You’re good. You’re fast.” They are proud of me. I kept up. I didn’t make them late or hold them back. They think I’m fast. I feel their approval in my heart. I am hooked on their praise.
#
I am ten years old. I make a club with four other girls. I am small and skinny with a short, bowl haircut, buck teeth, a flat chest, and bony knees. They are tall, long-haired beauties. There are rules: we must play together and only together at recess. We must wear a brand of sweatpants called Cotton Ginny but they must not be the same color as anyone else’s in the group. This morning, Natasha breaks the rules.
“She came to school in the same color sweatpants as Sarah. Twice,” Ria says accusingly.
“I’m sure she did it on purpose, just so Sarah couldn’t wear hers,” Carrie adds.
I look down at the painted hopscotch lines on the pavement and throw my rock, then hop quickly from square to square, being careful not to step on the lines. I don’t say anything. Fear’s voice is loud in my head, “If you speak up, you’ll be kicked out too.” Natasha is my best friend. We have known each other since kindergarten. Most days after school we sit together on her porch swing, eating Ritz crackers with peanut butter and laughing. Being with Natasha feels like being home.
“Let’s vote,” suggests Sarah. “Raise your hand if you think Natasha should be kicked out of the club,” she says, staring right at me. Then she raises her hand. I look at Carrie and Ria. Their hands are high in the air. I don’t remember lifting my arm. I don’t remember agreeing. I just want them to stop looking at me. I must have raised my hand because Sarah smiles.
“There. It’s unanimous,” Sarah says with triumph in her voice.
Natasha is no longer a part of our club. But I am safe. I am still in. She’ll be fine, I tell myself. I walk home from school just a few sidewalks squares behind Natasha. I hear her crying. I want to go to her, tell her I am sorry, make her peanut-butter Ritz crackers to make everything better, but I don’t. I am afraid. I’m with Sarah and Ria and Carrie. I want to belong to the club. Sarah is talking. I have no idea what she is saying. But I throw my head back and laugh loudly anyway. She puts her arm around my shoulder. I know what that means. She approves. I’m safe.
When my mom asks me how school was that day, I don’t tell her how sad I am or how badly I hurt Natasha. I push my feelings down.
I show my mom my perfect score on my spelling test. “Good for you,” she says. Then Dad, who lives across town, comes over to take my brothers and me for the weekend. I overhear my mom tell him about my perfect spelling test and how I beat all the boys in the city track meet. He looks at me proudly. “Is that true?” he asks. I nod. He picks me up and gives me a big bear hug. “I’m so proud of you. You’re my star!” He says. I am Dad’s star. I look at my parents. They are both smiling. I understand something important. Winning track races and earning perfect test scores is the way to make my parents happy. It’s as if I’ve unlocked a secret door. All I have to do is get good grades and run fast; then we’ll all be happy, together.
#
I am eleven. I am staying at Dad’s house for the weekend. I never see Dad just kicking back, the way some fathers do, in front of a Sunday football game on TV. Dad is always in action mode. We grow up on a lake, so sailing is a regular activity on Sundays in the summer. I’m sure we went out on nice, sunny days, but I only remember the slate-gray ones.
One day, when a storm is brewing on the lake, Dad steers the boat toward the darkest patches of water because “that’s where the wind is.” My eyes are glued to the far side of the lake where lightning burns its way from sky to water and the clouds are as black and flat-bottomed as cast-iron skillets. Dad waves happily to the captains steering their boats toward the sheltered harbor, then says to us kids, “Why are they going home when it’s just getting good?” To Dad, the storm is far away, and the lake is big. We can always choose a different heading. What is terrifying to me and those other captains is exciting to him.
So, we watch the lightning the way I imagine other families would watch fireworks, except that they would be safe on their checkered blankets on land, while we float in a tiny boat on a big lake between fierce explosions of thunder.
“Hey kids, isn’t this a great show?”
Our plastic, yellow slicker hoods nod “yes” in the pouring rain.
“Uh oh,” my dad says suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“The halyard is stuck on something…Susie! You’re the lightest. Come scamper up the mast and untangle the lines,” Dad says as if he is saying, “Come throw the ball with me on the lawn.”
“What about those dark clouds?” I ask, nervously.
“Plenty of non-threatening sky to the west,” he responds.
I am thrilled to be asked. This is a job reserved for my brothers. There’s no time to be scared. But it is cold and windy, and I don’t really want to go. The weather will hold. Don’t let him down, Susie. He’ll never ask again. Partway up the mast, I can’t stop shivering. My teeth knock against each other and rattle my jaw. The wind vibrates the rigging and makes a loud, howling sound. Everything is shaking. Gusts of wind whip my hair across my eyes and I can’t see. I’m not that far up, but I can feel the whole boat rock from side to side beneath me. The storm is still far off in the distance, but up here it seems so close I can touch it. Dad’s smile is wide as he looks up at me. I know that look. He is proud of me. I am not delicate or soft. I’m tough. I’ll do anything to win that smile, to earn his love.
“Come on down!” Dad shouts up at me. I can’t tell if he is saying that because he doesn’t need my help anymore, or because I have failed him. I cling to the mast as the wind pushes and pulls me. I swing way out over the water on one side of the boat, and then way out over the water on the other side. It’s time to climb down, but I can’t center myself.
#
I am thirteen and in junior high now. Fortunately, Natasha and I are best friends again. I
