Here now, soothed Trey.
I would never hurt my little
girl. He petted me as he might
a nervous pup, but that did little
to quell the tornado inside me.
SOMEHOW HE DIDN’T GET
That, despite his probable
relationship to me,
I wasn’t his little girl.
Not
then and not now.
He has never even pretended
to play father to me.
With a little help from
my
grandfather, Aunt Cora raised
me, though she was only
seventeen when I was born.
What an amazing
cup
of blessing! She could
have just let me fall into
the system, instead
of
giving up her own party
years to take care of me.
Or she could have left
me to suffer Grandfather’s
poison
alone.
INSTEAD, SHE STAYED
Played the “mom” role, and played
it well. Thank God I’ve got a female
someone in my life. I’d like to say
I’ve got tons of girlfriends, but nope.
Not exactly sure why, but I have
never been what you could call
popular. Aunt Cora says it’s my aura.
I see them, you know. Yours is dark.
Sort of like black coffee, although
it fluctuates. Sometimes there are
little flecks of gold. If you could
make those coalesce, turn your
aura more toffee than coffee,
things would be different. Let me
give you some exercises….
Everyone needs a mystic aunt for a
surrogate mom. Sometimes it’s hard
to believe she’s only thirty-four.
I swear she must be reincarnated.
Some ancient witch, burned at the stake,
returned for a shot at redemption.
WHATEVER SHE IS
Witch or gypsy,
I don’t have time
to think about it
now. I summon as
many gold flecks
as I can, hope they
turn me toffee-er,
point myself toward
Ms. Carol’s room.
Cherie feels generous
today, or maybe
she’s got something
to brag on. She’s
waiting by her locker,
which is two down
from mine. I don’t
really want to talk
to her, or anyone.
So much for gold
flecks. I’m black coffee.
I SHOULDN’T HAVE WORRIED
About not feeling like talking.
Cherie can talk enough for
both of us. And she does.
Guess what? Billy Burke
asked me to Homecoming.
“Great,” I say, even though
I think Billy is disgusting.
Why would she want to go
out with that loser, anyway?
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
Wanna help me shop for
my dress? I’m thinking blue,
or maybe green, but I’m not sure.
Is blue the wrong color for
fall? Because all I’m seeing
in magazines is, like, plum and
apricot and that custard yellow….
She goes on and on about
fashion, all the way to Ms. Carol’s
classroom. I nod and smile
and do my very best to
conjure up toffee.
WHEN WE WALK THROUGH THE DOOR
I really hope I’ve managed
to glom onto a few gold flecks
because there’s a new guy,
sitting across from my regular
seat. He’s not like model pretty
or anything, but he is extremely
cute in a boy-next-door sort
of way, with sun-streaked hair
and dark eyes and cheeks that
dimple when he smiles. Smiles.
At me. My face goes hot as I slide
into my chair, wishing I had the slightest
clue how to flirt. I don’t. Never tried
it. I can barely manage to smile back.
And when his grin widens at my obvious
discomfort and he whispers, Hi, I think
I might just curl up in a little ball,
roll away into a corner, and die.
IT’S NOT LIKE
I’ve never been attracted
to a guy before. I’m a normal,
healthy heterosexual girl.
Okay, not totally normal,
which is why guys aren’t exactly
fighting over me. Pretty much
everyone here knows my tale
of woe. Who wants to date a loser
who uses words like “woe,” and lives
with her grandfather because
her parents shuffle in and out
of jail, for cripes’ sake?
Aunt Cora says if I’d just carry
myself with more dignity, things
would be different. She claims
I overthink stuff, and maybe
I’m overthinking stuff right now.
Maybe the new guy is just
being nice because we have
to sit next to each other.
Maybe he is smiling at Cherie,
not me at all. Or maybe he is
only smiling because I blushed
like the idiot I am. Or maybe …
Suddenly I notice that the room
is silent, and everyone’s looking at
me. Ms. Carol is up front, taking roll.
Autumn? Are you here, or what?
Now everyone laughs, because
obviously I’m not here,
despite being present. Still, I lie,
“Um. Yes. Here.” I slump down into
my seat, but once everything goes
quiet, I chance a glance at the new
guy, too cute in a leather bomber.
He’s still smiling. Definitely at me.
TIME
Slows to a crawl, each grain of sand
in the hourglass suspended
midair before finally
dropping through.
American history
isn’t the most
exciting class
anyway, but there
is no way I can possibly
concentrate on the Industrial
Revolution. The boredom is crushing.
I feel like a vacuum is sucking the air
from my lungs. My heart races.
My wrists throb. There’s
a gushing in my ears.
I could die. Right
here. Right
now. I close my
eyes, breathe. Breathe
to fight the burgeoning panic.
No! Damn it. I won’t give in. Not
here. Not now. Not when I’m so close.
SO CLOSE
To feeling like
maybe, just maybe
I have a chance
at being okay.
So close
to feeling normal.
Regular. Not a misfit
at all, but someone
worthy of a friend,
and not only a friend,
but
a boyfriend. Breathe.
Deep. The threat of
suffocation recedes.
The all-encompassing
terror falls far,
far away.
I am, in fact, okay.
For the moment.
I HAVEN’T HAD
A panic attack in quite a while.
&n
bsp; I had my first one when I started
middle school. I really thought
I was going to die that day.
My arms and legs went all tingly.
Then my heart beat so insanely
hard, I thought it would explode,
rip my chest wide open.
No one understood what was
happening, not even the school
nurse, who called paramedics.
It took a savvy ER tech to explain
that my heart didn’t have a problem.
My messed-up brain did. Okay,
he didn’t say it was messed up.
I figured out that part myself.
Since then, there have been
other attacks. Other days when
I felt like I didn’t dare leave
my room. I’ve done my homework.
I know anxiety causes them, just
like it causes my OCD. You can find
the easy fix in pharmacies, but
I don’t want to be like Grandfather.
Or worse, end up like my parents—
a slave to addiction, and legal drugs
are often as addictive as controlled
substances. (Shouldn’t those really be
called uncontrollable substances?)
I learned how to mostly cope without
medication, thanks to Aunt Cora,
yoga-meister, who showed me
how the right kind of breathing
can pull my brain out of the “how
now seems” into the “what really is.”
Score one more for Aunt Cora.
THE BELL RINGS
Ms. Carol shouts out
our homework assignment
as the mass exodus
begins. I gather my stuff,
look around for Cherie,
but the only person still
in the room is the new guy.
OMG. Is he waiting for me?
Hi, he says in an accent-free
voice. California smooth.
I’m Bryce. We just moved
here from—
“California.” My fingers
are tingling. No. No. No!
Breathe deep. Breathe.
He grins. Yeah. How did
you know? You psychic,
or something like that?
He is just so cute. Why
me? Whatever the reason,
I actually smile back at him.
“Nope. Not psychic. But
I know California when I
hear it.” How am I doing this?
We start walking. Together.
You ever been to California?
Through the door. Together.
“Yeah. My dad used to live
there. And my aunt. I live
with her now.” Too much info.
But he doesn’t ask for more.
Oh. Do you like San Antonio?
Down the hall. Together.
“It’s okay. It’s really all I
remember.” Too much, again.
“Someday I’ll go back.”
He knows what I mean. Me
too. You can take the kid out
of California, but …
I know what he means. At
least, I think I do. California.
Huh. “Exactly.” Still together.
Summer
ROUSED
From sleep.
Someone is …
crying somewhere
in the darkness
blanketing me.
“Who’s there?”
The voice is tiny,
frail as a promise
when it stutters, N-no
one. Just … m-me.
Not quite all
the way awake,
still I know who
it is. “Ashante?
What’s wrong?”
I reach for the lamp
beside my bed,
fumble for the switch….
AMBER LIGHT
Spills in a narrow
stream across my
bed to the floor
beyond. Ashante
crouches in the
corner by the door,
arms crossed tightly
against her chest.
She is a storm
cloud—puffs of
ebon skin fringing
her soiled white
cotton nightgown.
And the repulsion
glimmering cold in
her eyes is familiar
because it is some-
thing I have seen
staring back at me
from the glacier ice
of my mirror. I already
suspect the answer
when I ask, “What in
the hell happened?”
I OPEN MY ARMS
Her eyes grow wide, and she shakes
her head. Tears streak her cherub cheeks.
I slip out of my bed, move toward her,
and she shrinks back against the wall.
“It’s okay,” I soothe. “I won’t hurt you.”
I approach her as I would a cornered dog,
crazy wild with fear. I force my voice low
and calm. “Now tell me what happened.”
This time when I reach gently for her,
she tips forward into my arms. Sh-she
m-m-made me do something b-b-bad.
I told her n-no, but she said I h-had to.
She? Darla? What kind of bad?
“Who, honey? Did she hurt you?”
Ashante hesitates, trembling. I insist,
“What did she make you do?”
Finally she admits, It was Erica.
She made me touch her in bad places.
It didn’t hurt me, though. But she said
if I told, she’d make me be sorry.
A MEMORY SLAMS INTO ME
A different room.
A different house.
A different town.
I was young.
I was afraid.
He was big.
He was strong.
He was supposed
to keep me safe.
No one saw when
he came to me,
put his hand over
my mouth, and said,
If you tell, I’ll make
you sorry. Understand?
He was all over me.
He was on top of me.
He was inside me.
I never told.
I never screamed.
I never healed.
A different night.
A different place.
A different girl.
I NEVER TOLD
I’d already been
pushed aside by
my mother
and my father.
I’d already lost
my Grandpa Carl
and Grandma Jean.
I’d already been
shuffled through
one foster home,
another, one more.
That was the fourth.
Why didn’t anyone want me?
What was wrong with me?
What if that place
was my last chance?
Was that what it took
for someone to care?
No, I never told.
Another girl did.
MY BODY
Healed quickly. But the wound
to my psyche was deep.
Wide. First aid, too little, too late,
left me hemorrhaging inside,
the blood unstaunched by psychological
bandage or love’s healing magic.
Eventually it scabbed over,
a thick, ugly welt of memory.
I work to conceal it, but no matter
how hard I try, once in a while
something makes me pick at it
until the scarring
bleeds.
In my arms, Ashante cries,
innocence ripped apart
by circumstance. Bloodied by
inhuman will. Time will prove
a tourniquet. But she will always
be at risk of infection.
ANGER MUSHROOMS
Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,
every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to
the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.
“Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever
she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t
worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”
Not as long as I have anything to say about it.
My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.
It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice
the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really
care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.
She’s wide awake when I storm through it,
into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”
SHE STARES AT ME
With meth-emptied eyes,
and when she smiles in silent
defiance, she is death, grinning.
I want to shake her. Want to
kick her ass. But what for?
She’s not even here. Still,
I can’t let it go. Girl. Man. Mostly
dead or no, a predator is a predator.
You can’t let it roam unshackled.
“What did you do to Ashante?”
I demand, stomping right up
in front of her and grabbing
her by her hair. I expect her
to jerk away, swing at me, or
something. But she just sits
there like a mannequin.
I didn’t do anything to her,
but she did plenty for me.
ZERO REMORSE
Zero guilt. Zero emotion.
She really is evil, or at
least what she smoked
this afternoon is. I can’t
take it. I want her to hurt.
I swing a stiff backhand,
slap her face. Hard.
She animates suddenly
and we are on the floor.
She is stronger than I thought.
Her right hand connects.
Fingernails bite into my
cheek, sink through my skin.
All the hate and pain and fear
I’ve ever felt in my life ball
up into one vicious biting,
scratching beast. “Fuck you,
bitch!” I scream. She is Zoe.
She is my mother. She is …