Mr. Sandman

The streets are dark, the fog is hovering thickly a few inches above the ground, looking like clouds are falling from the sky. I'm wandering the streets, feeling deep down inside like I have lost something- something important, and I have to find it before it's too late. There! There's a glimpse of something just out of the corner of my eye, turning a corner and going out of sight. I hurry after it, trying to catch it, calling for it to slow down.
My baby sits peacefully at the end of the street, smiling serenly at me. His chubby arms reach up for me, and I take a step toward him. He faintly resembles Grant, but looks like my family, too- Grant's eyes are prominent in his face, giving him a sad, puppy dog expression, but his smile is all mine. "William," I whisper, and he smiles, gets up, and runs off in to the fog. "Wait!" I yell, running after him. He turns, not smiling anymore, and suddenly his eyes are Grant's, his face lengthening and thinning out from baby fat to a man's face, all strong jaw and cheekbones: Grant's face. He moves toward me, snarling like a nad dog that is about to bite, and I hurridly back up, knowing what is going to happen. In a flash, Grant is looking above me. I force my eyes open, just in time to see his hand descend, and the stars explode behind my eyes. I gasp, the pain magnified until it feels as if I strucck live wires to my tounge; then the world explodes into darkness again, and I open my eyes (correction, my eye, since my other one is swelling quickly shut) n time to see him unclench his fist and massage it.
"Why?" I moan, feeling hot blood running down my throat and clutching my hands to my mouth. "Why are you doing this?" The question is garbled by the blood, almost to the point of incomprehension, but I keep asking. Grant ignores me, hitting and slapping, beating me until I curl up on the ground in a ball, trying to keep my vital organs protected, knowing that he will kill me if this keeps going, and all the while begging him to stop.
I wake up slowly, aware first that someone is shaking me, secondly that I am crying. I can still feel the places where Grant's blows fell, and raise my hands to my lips, surprised that they come away clean, rather than spotted with blood. The room is pitch black, the color of the early, early morning after the moon has disappered and before the sun has appeared in the sky- what Jayson used to call the "in between hours" the times when anything could happen. Shadows sinisterly slide into the corners and behind the desk and I sit up, disoriented.
"Cillia, baby, you ok?" Jess is shaking me, rubbing my back in large, soothing circles. "You were crying. And screaming."
"Bad dream." I mumble, even now trying hungrily to remember how my baby looked in those too-few, precious moments before he changed into Grant.
"Do you wanna talk about it? Was it about...your anniversary?"
I roll over, burying my face into his warm, bare chest. "Yeah, I think. I was running...and saw the baby....and Grant..." I'm crying, sobbing unabashedly, like I've never cried, not in front of Jess or anybody. Jess, shocked, holds me close to his chest, murmmering soothing things into my hair. "He...hit me..." I choke out. "That's what I never wanted to tell you. But he did." Jess' body tenses, and I bury my face deeper into his chest, needing to get this out of my mind, at least to him, the one that I never lied to. "I thought, for a long time, that if I did everything right....if I kept him happy...everything would be fine, and he would stop. But he didn't. He never stopped. Not even when I begged."

Crying Lambs (2)

I lead her to a stone bench at the top of the stairs, catty-cornered to the bathroom, and sit down heavily, closing my eye. "Let me know when the lambs stop screaming, Clarisse." I whisper.
"What?"
"It's a quote. 'Silence of the Lambs'." Val looks confused and I shake my head, "Never mind.. Not that important." I take her hand and run it over my left arm.
Her eyes grow wide, "Oh my God. Did he..." her voice trails off.
"No. No. That was me. But...he wasn't fully without fault. I was pregnant when I did this-almost a year ago now."
"So," he voice sounded unsure in this new territory. "You have a baby? With Grant?"
"No, I lost it a few months later. Not because of this..." I sigh, "When I told him, Grant wanted me to get an abortion. We had a huge fight about it and..."I hold up my arm and there is the end, the long scar that shows milky in the moonlight. "I loved him. Fully. Desperately. He'd spent so long trying to convince me that I was pathetic, ugly, that he was the only guy who could ever love me. I started to believe it." I stop. The door to the ballroom opens, then slams closed. Val opens her mouth to speak, but I hold a finger up to my lips, gesturing her to get into the bathroom. She walks in quickly and I slip off my shoe, massaging my heel.
"Val?" Grant peeks around the metal door, getting an unintended look down my dress top. His eyes pop slightly and I sit up quickly.
"Apparently, I'm not here. Why you looking? Your puppy dog get loose from her leash?"
"She went to the bathroom." he shoots back. "I wasn't sure.."
"Not sure if the Big Bad Bitch was telling her more horror stories?"
He glares at me, "I don't want you feeding her a line. It's taken long enough to convince her that I'm not the Devil Incarnate."
"You aren't? Wow. Coulda fooled me." my mind, still attuned to Grant's moods, begins to tell my mouth to shut up, because I am about to get myself into trouble.
He moves closer, "Listen, bitch,  know that you talked to her when I asked you about my car. I don't know what you said, but you got her to stay away from me for a week."
"Ooh, poor Grant." I sneer, feeling mean and snarky, "You didn't have your blow-doll for a week. Don't know how you survived, 'cause Lord knows you live for sex."
He sneers back, "I haven't had sex with her. I actually  care about her- you were just a fuck toy. You're still just a pathetic little bitch, aren't you? Still just as ugly and as much of an attention-whore as you were when I left you."
I close my eyes, willing myself not to listen, not to let him drag me back into that place where he has control. "Shut up, Grant."
"You always wanted it." he continues, taunting, trying to pull me back into the sick little games that he played when we were dating. "It was never rape- it's not rape if you don't say no. And if I smacked you around a little bit, it was just to keep you in line."
"So that's what you're gonna do to her? 'Smack her around' to keep her in line? Or has she just given in to all of the shit that you feed her about being ugly and worthless? Gonna knock her up and leave her to die, too? Jerk." I spit, trying to think of something that will hurt him half as much as he's hurt me. "You're just a jerk, Grant, a runner. A coward. Just like your father."
His hand shoots out so fast that I don't even have time to react. All that I know is one minute, I'm standing up, the next, I'm on the floor, dimly feeling pain.
"Bitch." he spits, angrily, slamming the ballroom doors behind him.
Slowly, I stand up. There is blood all over my palms and my face feels sticky. Mutely, I walk into the bathroom, bending over the sink and ignoring Val's face, ghost white, behind me. Carefully, I sponge most of the blood off of my face, and lean my head bac, keeping a towel under my nose. "Crap," I mutter, "I really hope that this isn't broken."
"He hit you." Val's voice comes from behind me. "That's why you kept wanting to make sure that I was ok." I nod, quite an exercise when your head is at a ninety-degree angle with the floor. "But...he hasn't done it to me. It won't happen to me, right? I mean, he couldn't. I love him, and he loves me. Besides, you pushed him."
"Val." I say, closing my eyes, "That wasn't the first time. Besides, if I hadn't said anything, he would have hit me anyway."
"No," she starts to back slowly out of the bathroom, "he just...he wouldn't." she turns and leaves; I slam my hand on the counter: great, I've just lost her.
When I finally make it back to the ballroom, I find Jess and tap him on the shoulder. "Baby," I say, suddenly exhausted, feeling pieces of my world begin to crumble in my hands. "take me home."
Jess paces back and forth in my kitchen, his suit jacket thrown over a chair, his hair falling out of its slicked-back ponytail from him running his hands through it so often. He looks furious.
I sit at the table, holding an icepack gingerly on my nose, hoping that it, along with some carefully-applied makeup, will cover the extent of the damage. Dropping the icepack, I turn to Kent, sitting beside me, looking a little bit lost.
"Hon, can you go get my makeup bag? It's in the bathroom, under the sink. The leopard print one."
He nods and practically runs out of the kitchen. I can understand his hurry: for the entire ride home, and the hour that we have been here, Jess has alternately paced the kitche,, and burst out with angry fragments of thought. I have never seen him lose his temper, but now he looks so angry that I am both scared to be around him, and scared to let him leave.
Kent returns, placing the bag on the table, and watches as I sort through the jumbled contents, surfacing with a tube of lipstick, a jar of concealer and one of liquid makeup, and powder. Fascinated, he watches as I blot and rub and powder away, working until the bruising around my eyes and nose is almost totally invisible. When I look up, he seems dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly, like a fish under water. "Where did you learn to do that?" he asks, incredulous.
"Cosmo." I shrug.
"Cillie," he asks, slowly, "how many times has Grant hit you? You know how to do that way too well for this to have been the first time."
I shake my head, shooting a pointed look at where Jess is now standing shock-still. He looks, first at me, then at the makeup bag in front of me, as if piecing everything together. His eyes are practically glowing. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him!" he turns, kicking a kitchen chair and stomping out the door.
"Damnit, Kent." I snap, "You couldn't have just kept your mouth shut?" I grab my keys and purse from the table by the door where I had dropped thme when we came in, and follow Jess out, Kent close on my heels. Stopping to slide on my heels, I hear Jess' Harley engine turn over and roar out of the driveway.
Outside, I jump into the car and throw my phone to Kent. "We need Chris and Mose, whoever you know that's big. No cops- we've already got enough problems on our hands. You have Val's number?" he nods. "Call." I command, "and put her on speaker. Tell her to get Grant out of there. And to haul ass doing it."

Crying Lambs

School is beginning to wind down for the year. Finals are still about a month away, but all of the papers/essay/take-home eams that have been assigned since January and forgotten until now, are starteing to equal stress and many sleepless nights. It has been two weeks since Maria and Grants and I have yet to be alone with, or even see, Val.
The school is putting on a Retro Throwback party tonight and, after much begging and pleading, Jess has agreed to go. He sits in the kitchen, cursing his cuff links and fixing his tie, when I walk in, dressed to kill as a modern-day Betty Boop- tight black and red polka dot dress, red peep toe heels, and elaborately curled hair (as if it isn't curly enough on its own!)
"Wow..." he lets out a wolf whistle.
I blush, smiling, "Oh, hush." I lean in to the mirror by the  back dorr, slicking cherry red lipstick over my lips.
The school ballroom is already packed when we get there, kids dressed in everything from early-American colonial to 80's flashdance stand around, drink punch, and goof around with their friends. Kent siddles up to us  almost as soon as we walk in, cutting quite a figure in his pinstripe suit and fendora.
"Early Michael Jackson?" I joke. He sticks his tounge out at me.
"Wanna dance?" he asks, shooting a look to Jess. Jess nods almost imperceptably and I put my hand in Kent's letting him twirl me on to the dance floor. 
"Oh. My. Gah." I moan later, pulling off my shoes and rubbing the heel of my feet. "How do people walk in these things?"
Kent laughs, handing me a paper cup of punch, "Most people probably get used to it- of course, I'm sure that most of them aren't as anti-heel as you are."
"I'm not anti-heel." I protest, "I just hate wearing them."
"Oh, c'mon, babygirl. I've seen you wear Converse to church."
"Ok," I conceed, "maybe I am a bit anti-heel." I stand up, straightening my dress, "I'm going to the ladie's. Be right back."
The hallway outside the ballroom is long and white, leading to the cafeteria on one side, and flanked by two heavy metal doors that lead to the huge stairway of the student center on the other. My heels click on the tile, echoing in the silence, making me edgy.
"Cecillia." the hiss comes from behind me, toward the stairway, its slight breathlessnes showing that the person doesn't want to attract un-needed attention.
"Val?"
"I'm so sorry! Grant and Maria have been all over me the past few weeks," she looks at her feet, a little embarassed, "Kent said that you were worried about me."
"Are you ok?" I grab her arms, turning them over and over, searching her face and neck, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"No! Cecillia!" she grabs my face, focusing my eyes on hers, "He hasn't hurt me. Will you please tell me what happened?"

Face Time (2)

"For that thing that you don't want to talk about, right?"
I nod, "He was incredibly ticked- with good reason, of course. But, he found me on Monday. I was lucky 'cause his girlfriend came to warn me, so I had the guys out there with me. But they both- him and Maria- looked like they could kill me on the spot. And now, I'm kind of scared- for me and the girlfriend."
Jess gets up and moves in front of me, gently lifting my face up to his so that wwe are eye-to-eye and cradles my chin. "Babygirl, I know that you don't want to, but it's time for you to tell me what happened with this guy."

Face Time

I haven't seen or heard from Val in three days and am starting to get worried.
"Why are you so fricking jumpy tonight, babygirl?" Jess demands. For the past couple of hours, we have been laying on my bed, watching a movie. Ok. Correction: Jess has been watching a movie. I have been jumping at the slightest sound, getting up to check and recheck the lock on my door, and compulsively grabbing my phone to make absolutely sure for the ten-thousandth time that I haven't missed any calls.
I sigh. There is a reason I haven't told Jess anything about Grant. He was incredibly hot-tempered, and very protective of me. If I tell him, I will either soon be down at the police station (to bail him out if he is stupid enough to get caught) or to give an alibi for him (if he isn't).
"It's about your ex, isn't it?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in my ear. I nod and his arms tighten around me. I put a restraining hand on his arm.
"Swear that you won't do anything stupid." I command, feeling a bit paranoid, but knowing that I have a very good reason to be. He gives a quick, stiff nod behind me. "Well, during Spring Break, Mags and I kind of went and trashed his car. And his dorm door. Kind of payback, really late payback."

The Unnamed Nightmare

“I hate Mondays!” Maria moans, flopping onto Grant’s bed and jarring both me and his laptop, balanced on my lap.

I laugh, “Well then you and Garfield have something in common.”

“Wonderful,” she groans, “I have something in weight with an overweight orange cat.” She lifts her face slightly up from its burrow on Grant’s comforter.”Grant, you almost done with that coffee?” she calls.

“It’s goin’ Maria.” He replies, coming over to sit beside me on the bed. Maria buries her face back in the covers.

After Grant and Maria’s last class of the day, we all came back to Grant’s room to rest and relax. He made coffee and heats up the leftover pizza from his dinner last night, and Maria and I settle on his bed, happily engrossed in Scooby Doo’s Mystery Cruise.

Grants leans over, kissing my neck and I smile, growling deep in my throat: my one weak spot and he finds it within a week. Maria sits, curled up in a blanket, watching the movie, and doesn’t even look up when I turn around, wrapping my fingers in Grant’s hair and kissing him. He picks me up, carrying me into his small, box-like bathroom, and sets me down, kissing down my neck and chest. His hands stray to the button on my jeans.

“Grant.” I say, pulling his hands away, setting them firmly on my waist.

“Cecillia, please?” he asks, pushing me against the wall and kissing me harder. “I really want you.” His hands are back at my jeans; I try to push him off, but his full weight has me pressed against the wall, pining me.

“Grant. No. I don’t want to.” I say, seeing the outline of his face in the darkness. I’ve heard about rape, but never thought that it would happen to me, especially with Grant.

“C’mon, Cecillia. You got me all worked up. You don’t want to be a tease, do you?” he hisses into my ear, pulling my hand down to his zipper as he speaks. I pull my hand away as if I’ve been burned, while my mind starts working over time: Doesn’t no mean anything to this guy? Maybe if I just keep saying it, he’ll stop, just ‘cause I get annoying, right? He won’t go through with this, not with Maria in the other room! Doesn’t he realize that I tell her everything?

“Grant, no. Stop. I don’t want to.” I plead. I say it forcefully. I repeat it until it gets annoying, even to me. He has me pinned; I try to push him off with my hips and legs, since my arms are pinned, but he just takes it as a sign of passion and pulls me closer, groaning through lips mashed against mine. He has my jeans unbuttoned, one hand inside of my underware. Finally, I do all that I have left- I zone out, focusing on one corner of the ceiling. I feel as if I’ve just gone completely numb, as if every emotion that I could possibly feel ever has drained out of me, and now there is just nothingness. After what feels like two or three eternities, Maria knocks on the door.

“Yall have been in there forever!” she whines. “Kyle says that if you shake it more than twice, you’re playing with yourself.”

Grant laughs and I get up, dressing slowly, knives and long knitting needles stabbing every inch of my body below the waist. I’m thankful that my best friend has come to my rescue, somewhere deep down in the part of my mind that never really shuts down. Pulling up my jeans, I run my fingers through my hopelessly knotted hair and avoid Grant’s eyes, following me around, even as he pulls his own clothes back on. I run my hands over my face and closed eyes and feel moisture- I was crying and didn’t even realize it, something that , up until now, I thought only happens in books and movies.

I walk out in front of him, still feeling as if there was a gauze veil separating me from the rest of the world. Grant was- as my great Grandpa would say- smiling like a pig in shit, as was Maria, making me feel like I have missed out on some huge joke that they have been told, and they aren’t willing to let me in on it quite yet.

Admittedly, I was embarrassed. Quickly, I left the dorm, head to my car and, after I get there, sit with my head propped up on the steering wheel, replaying the whole scenario in my head. I should have fought, I think, and suddenly feeling dirty, all the way down to my bones. I strip off Grant’s sweatshirt and throw it into the backseat. My hands shake as I try to pick up my phone and call someone, anyone, to come get me; but, if I call someone, I argue, there are going to be questions, serious ones that I don’t want to answer. Again, I replay the episode: I stopped saying “no”, right? I didn’t fight him, or even attempt to. No one in their right mind would call what happened rape. Rape is like those videos they show us in P.E. when we were in middle school: when they hit and clawed; where the boys had beat them up to make them still enough to finish what they wanted. In none of those videos did the girl give in. No, what happened was just sex, that was all.

I drive home, still in a fog, and get into the shower as soon as I walk in the door. The hot water runs and runs, fogging up the mirror, the steam making it hard to breathe. When I feel as if my lungs will explode for the humidity, I open the bathroom, then get back in until the water runs cold.

Yeah, it was just sex.

The Spider and the Fly

Back in high school, I read this book called Dreamland. The plot is fairly typical of all teen melodramas: a teen girl's sister runs away to be with her "star-crossed lover", and the parents and sister have no idea how to deal. Trying to fill the void left by her big sister, the girl falls for the Bad Boy on campus, beginning to smoke and drink with the guy who is (surprise! plot twist!) a drug dealer and (gasp) abusive. No, it wasn't what I would usually gravitate toward, but, on a deeper level, it pulls me. Why would someone willingly stay in an abusive relationship? Until I started dating Grant, I really didn't understand; there was no possible way that I  would be able to comprehend it.
As stupid and cliche as it seems, most times you don't even realize how abusive and controlling the partner is. It's like a fly trapped in a spider web: at first, you don't see it as a problem; then, when it's too late, you realize that it is a problem. Before you know it, you're wrapped up in the web, slowly being drained. Except, even as you're being drained, you don't see it as a big deal: surely the spider's ok, right? Right?
It wasn't until long after the fact that I realized: I was the stupid, naive, trusting fly.
I am incredibly tired and have a huge Psych paper due in two weeks. Lugging my library books that probably weigh as much as my arms into the Rec Center, I set my stuff down and busily begin to highlight, making notes as I go. As usual, Grant is at one of the furthest pool tables from the door, playing Magic with his friends. Usually, I give him a good morning kiss but today, it seems to be a Herculean effort. I'm busy, he's busy- certainly he knew and understood, right?
In the lull between games, he stands and walks towards me. I get up, meeting him halfway, and he kisses me quickly, as if he's worried that someone will catch us and tattle on us to the teacher.
"You didn't come say good morning." he sounds upsets. I open my mouth to reply, but Maria bounces in, cutting me off.
"Oh, by the way, Cil-Cil, I got you something."
"What?"
"Well, I got two of these lip-plumping lip glosses and Grant said to give you one."
Grant smiles slyly, "Blow job lip gloss. It tingle." I roll my eyes and Maria bounces off to class, while Grant drift back to his Magic game, gone without a word.
"Hey, babe. I'm gonna go get some lunch. You want something?" I ask, a couple of hours later. He shakes his head. A little later, I come back with his favorite cheese pizza, and tap him on the shoulder.
"I said I didn't want anything." he snaps.
Immediatly, I shrink back. "But, it's..."I falter and quickly give up, looking for a place to sit, but all of the chairs around the table were taken. Sullenly, I head back to the table I had abandoned earlier, leaving for class a few minutes later.
Later that afternoon, while he changes in his bathroom, I pull on my tennis shoes. "I'm going for a run, kay, babe?"
"Ok. Good. Go run off some of that pizza you are." he replies, sounding as if he's half-joking. "You know lil' bit, you'd do some good to lose some weight. Not a lot, you know. Just enough to get down to one-twenty or so." he makes an hourglass shape with his hands, "Get that figure."
Angrily, I stalk out, slamming the door behind me. I'd told him, I think as I begin to run, pounding the pavement beneath my shoes, that I'd had issues with food. I told him that I had struggled with anorexia. Surely, I'd told him, he couldn't be that cruel. Maybe it had just slipped his min. By the time that I stop in front of the dorm again, I've regained my cool and convinced myself that I haven't told him and he's spoken out of pure ignorance.

Wish Right Now

The Rec Room is noisy, the level pumping up quickly as the minutes tick by. Outside, the bottom has fallen out and water is pooling all around campus-everyone who came into the room is soaked through. My shoes, soaked from my trek from the Humanities building for History, stand against the wall, and Maria and I lay sprawled on the floor, drying out.
I sigh, "I swear, I have no clue what I am going to do." I groan. For the last twenty minutes or so, we have been talking about the local art show that the school has every year. "I've got a few idead, but nothing really that can go."
"I'm sure that it's fine, Cil-Cil." Maria replies, comforting me. The door behind us opens and she grins, "Hey, Grant!"
A tall guy with dirty-blonde hair pulled back and tucked under his blue cap, with dark brown eyes walks over. I smile, sizing him up almost automatically-cute, but nothing really to pant over.
"So," Maria continues, "do you have anything for the art show, Pup?" she asks him. He shrugs, reaching down to pull out a sketch book.
Later that night, I sit up, struggling through two hundred years of History, when my cell rings. "Yello?" I answer, cradling it between my ear and shoulder and continuing to type.
"Hey! What's up, Cil-Cil?"
"Not much, Maria. What's up with you?"
"Walking back to the dorms. So...what did you think of Grant?"
"Grant?" my mind flashes back to the cute guy with the cocker spaniel eyes. "He's cool, I guess."
"'Cool, you guess'?" she shrieks, "Well, he thinks that you're cute."
"Really? Um...ok?"
"And he's single." she hints strongly. "He was wondering if he can have your number."
I shrug, then realize that she can't see that. "Sure. Ok, I guess."
"Awesome!" Maria chirps.
The next day, after my first class, I sit down in the Rec Room with some coffee, watching Kent get his head handed to him in his Magic game, when my cell buzzes.
Hey, it's Grant.
I tap out a reply, surprised that he's already starting to text me. Didn't gus usually have a three-day rule or something about this?"
Have you seen Maria today? I've got to finish this English paper and have  to miss our Chem lab.
Looking around I realize that, no, I haven't seen her. But, I offer ot help. Why now? I think, I'm bored and English is my thing.
An hour later, the two of us are propped up on his bed, sipping mugs of coffee.
"Thanks again for helpin' me." he drawls, moving closer to me.
I shrug, "No problem, glad to do it." I smile, looking around the room. "Your family?" I ask, pointing to a row of pictures lined up above his laptop.
"Yepyep. My mom and dad. And my best friend. And my cousin's girlfriend and me at my graduation." he replies, pointing at each picture. "And there," he points to another picture, "are my two dogs, Misty and Gigi. Misty's a yapper. Gigi's a tripper." he stops, sputtering out. "And I guess that's about all that i've got."
I get up, carefully so as to not spill the little bit of coffee left in my cup onto the bedspread, and put it beside the empty sink. "Well, I guess I'll go..." I trail off. Grant's right in front of me, moving closer, and I realize how deep and beautiful his eyes are....

Repricussions

The Monday after Spring Break is always hard: noone wants to get up early after a week of sleeping in; sunburns scream from under the sheerest cloth; hangovers are still pounding and everyone is still trying to piece together what happened after the passed out. It's almost as if everyone needs a week to sleep off the one that they just had.
Kent and I are sitting at the smoker's table outside the Rec Center. He should be working on his Business Management project, and I should be working on my last speech, but we're both blowing them off to hang out and rehast our adventures- mine with Jess and Maggie, and his with his family at a reunion in Georgia.
"And Aunt Carrie made this horrible apple-and-peach dumpling pie thing." he shudders. "It was terrible. Then, right in the middle, after she'd had a few drinks, my cousin Jessica gets up and announces that she's gay. That 'bout killed my Aunt Clarrise, but we'd all known it for awhile so it was just kinda like 'ok? and?'" he shrugs.
Val runs up, looking frightened, and pulls up a chair close by me. "Did you mess with Grant's truck? And his room?" her voice is frantic and her eyes are shifting wildly.
I put on an innocent face, "What are you talking about, Val? Where's Grant? Or Maria?"
She motions nervously over her shoulder, "They were just leaving the dorms. I came ahead 'cause he was waiting for her." her voice drops, "He's seriously ticked, Cecillia, and he's sure that it was you. He keeps saying that he's gonna get the truth outta you and then go to the cops." Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of that.
Kents gets up, "I'm gonna go get Chris. And Mose. Maybe Jeremy if he's here yet. If that jerk's gonna threaten you, at least there will be witnesses. Maybe this will be a deterrant." I shoot him a greatful look: despite all of my bravado, both Grant and the prospect of a confrontation with him scare me to death.
"Val," I say calmly, tuning around to face her again. "I want you to listen to me, ok? I didn't do anything. I. Didn't. Do. Anything." I know that, deep down, she knows the truth, but's I'm not about to make it easy for him. She nods. "Ok. Good. Now, go inside. You don't need to be out here-or anywhere around me when this goes down. And," I add, almost as an afterthought, "you need to stay away from him for a couple of days after this, ok? Lock your door, make excuses, do whatever it takes. Just trust me." she nods again and heads off.
Chris, Mose, Jeremy, and Kent amble out, pulling chairs out and sitting on the low stone wall behind the table, smoking. Silently, I thank Kent again: these are the biggest guys that we know and them just being here makes me feel better. I smoke in silence for a few more minutes, my fingers shaking, betraying my otherwise cool exterior, until I spot Grant, storming up the hill that seperates the Rec Center from the main road leading to the dorms. I stab out my cig and try to make myself stop feeling nauseous, to little effect.
"You little bitch." Grant yells as he gets closer to the table. "You absolute little bitch!"
"Well, hello to you, too, Grant. Is there any specific reason for this verbal smack-down or are you just on your period? Want some Midol?"
"You know exactly why I'm doing this you little whore!" the veins in his jaw are working, his arm muscles flexing dangerously.
"If you want to hit me, Grant, go ahead. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?" I challange. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mose, the closest one to me, tense, half-rising. "Don't worry, Mose." I say, half-turning. "I got it."
Grant's eyes flash, "I'm talking about my car? My door? That ringing any bells for you?" his voice is shaking, he's so angry. I fight to stay cool.
I will not let him frighten me. I won't.
"I have no idead what you're talking about Grant. Care to elaborate?"
"On Saturday night, you came and wrote all over my door and wrapped my car in duct tape."
"Oh! I did?" I feign surprise. "Well, seeing as how I spent Saturday night watching DVDs with my friend Maggie and my boyfriend, it must have been my evil twin." The guys laugh behind me, enjoying the game.
"You lying little bitch!" he roars, raising his hand again. I close my eyes, praying that he stops quickly, that it doesn't hurt. After a few seconds, my eyes pop open. Maria has grabbed his hand and all four guys are on their feet behind him.
"That would not be a smart move, bro." Mose rumbles, running his hand over his hair.
"Don't worry, Grant." Maria hisses, shooting me an Evil Look, "We'll get her."
"You just wait." Grant spits, "I'll catch you when you least expect it."
I raise an eyebrow, "Good line, Grant. Did you pick it up from 'The Sopranos'?" he sneers at me and walks away.

Mission: Payback

Maggie, home for Spring Break, sits on my bed, scrolling through my iPod. "Baby Huey? Ying Yang Twins? Eminem?" she scoffs.
"It's my running music, Mags. Besides, is it really that bad for the white girl to be a little bit gangster?" I joke.
Maggie shoots me A Look, "Don't ever do that again."
I salute, "Ten-four, El Capitain."
I light up a cig and Maggie silently opens my window. "So, how has that thing with the chick gone?"
"Val?" i exhale a plume of smoke, "Not very far. We haven't talked since that night that I called you. Of course, every time that I've seen her, Grant and Maria have been breathing down her neck. It's lie they never let her go anywhere alone!"
I smoke silently for a little while, while Maggie play around with my iPod. "Before He Cheats" begin.
"Call me crazy...."Maggie begins.
"We both already know that you are, so wouldn't that be kind of pointless?"
Maggie holds up a hand-she is thinking- "You remember after Grant broke up with you?"
I grimmace, "All too well."
"Well, we never went on our mission did we?" she smiles wickedly. Maggie is the protector, the kick-butt-and-screw-the-names type of girl. After Grant broke up with me, she proposed a midnight excursion: I knew where Grant parked in the dorm lots, what his car looked like, and where his dorm was. I also knew that there were no cameras in the dorm lots.
After long, careful deliberation (about two seconds of it) I stand up and walk to my closet "You do have something dark, don't you?" I ask, tossing her a black, oversized hoodie.
"Of course. Do you wanna drive or should I?"
It is way after midnight by the time we pull into the dorm's nearly deserted parking lot. Shopping took much longer thatn we'd thought, both of us drunk on the prospect of being so bad, but we finally manage to get everything that we needed.
"Room first?" I ask. She nods, pulling out the plastic bag with the shaving cream, Sharpies, single-edged razor blades, and duct tape. I pop three pieces of Double Bubble into my mouth and hand three more to her.
"It's all so empty!" she whispers.
"Most are either at home or at parties." I'm growing nervous. "Alpha...Beta...Gamma. Thank God he's not upstairs." I hiss, glad that we wouldn't have to tramp up and down the steps. Grant's dorm is situated right under the steps, in the shadows. The night is dark, and our shoes quietly slip over the concrete up to the door.
Maggie pulls out a Sharpie, scrawling all over the door while I fill in the window, the doorknob, and the jamb of the door with shaving cream. When we finish, we both pull our wads of gum out and stuff them into the key hole.
The car is going to be a little more difficult. If the alarm is on, people will come running, so we decide to leave that for last. We each slash two of the tires and, as she fills in all of the windows with shaving cream and Sharpie, i wrap duct tape from under the driver's side door across the top to under the passenger side door. Maggie smiles at me, handing me a bat. "Let it all out, girl."
"Don't hit the duct tape." I reply, "It won't leave a mark."

Generally, the Hospital

It  is cold. And white. There is a light shinning in my face. The light at the end of the tunnel? Possibly. But, no, my luck isn't that good. There are voices beside me, angry voices. Uh-oh. Should I go back to Lala land? No, that option's passed. Guess I've got to wake up. Hail Maryfullofgrace.
My eyes pop open. Mom is sitting on my left, her face red and free of makeup. Grandma is at the foot of the bed, her mascara all over her face. Both look exhausted, I feel a little stoned, and wonder vaguely why I'm here. Looking down at the hand that Mom is gently patting, I see the white gauz wrapped from wrist to elbow. Oh. That was why.
As everything floats back, I make a funny sounding noise in the back of my throat, somewhere between a cough and a sigh. Mom and Grandma both look up and break into relieved smiles.
"Thank God you're awake, baby." Mom squeezes my hand. "Jayson's on his way. He'll be here tomorrow morning."
"How long was I out for?" my voice feels scratchy, and my mind is working overtime. Jayson? Why is he on the way? How bad did they think that I was?
"A couple of days. You..." Mom stops, swallowing. There is an audible click in her throat. "Lots of blood. We were afraid- so afraid."
Grandma squeezes my foot, the voice of reason. "But you're awake now, so it's ok."
If I had the strength, I would roll my eyes- that is just like Grandma: living in her own world, thinking that everything will turn out just fine, no matter what happens. As it is, I am so exhausted I can barely talk.
"Momma, I'm tired." Geez, I sound like I'm two. "Can I go back to sleep?"
She reaches up to stroke my hair. "Of course, baby. We'll be right here/"
I glance at the clock on the wall across from the bed: 10:45. There aren't any windows in the room, but judging from how quiet the hallway is, it is late at night. "No, Mamma, yall go home. Sleep. I'll see yall in the morning." She nods and leans down to kiss my cheek. There is a whiff of her perfume, the same kind that she has worn for as long as I can remember, and my eyes fill with tears.
After they leave, the room seems too empty, too scary. C'mon, I tell myself, you'll be nineteen in a few weeks, you don't need your mommy to come sit up with you and keep the monsters away. Despite the stern talking-to though, I still can't sleep. After awhile I give up and stare at the wall, trying to piece everything together in the murky swamp of my mind. Everything comes at me like pictures, being run through full speed: Grant breaking up with me; Maria calling me nasty things; clubs; shots; fallng over myself to go throw up; sharp, stabbing pains in my stomach that bring me to my knees; the drugstore; a cashier's fface saying "God bless you, honey."; a red plus sign staring at me; my face, white as a ghost in the mirror; the phone call, pleading; waiting; fighting, names, accusations, the dreaded word- abortion; leaving angry; wanting this thing, this piece of him, out of me. A razor, my arm, the blood, then...blackness.
At some point, I fall back into the middle-ground, that place just on the edge of sleep that ou can be yanked out of in a heartbeat. While there, drifitng along the rivers that lul you into the land of the sleeping, I can hear, as if from far away, the door to my room opening. I feel something soft brush my cheek and smile, even drugged up and half-asleep I recognize a kiss, and hear Jess' voice.
"Please don't leave, Cecillia." he whispers, puling my hand to his heeart. I feel its steady bass drum beat under my hand. "We all love you so much. Don't leave us."

Artsy Fartsy

Ever since The Incident, I've had good days and bad days. On the good days, I talk and laugh, and am just about downright cheerful. On the bad days, I sulk, and don't talk, and sit in the corner with my iPod plugged into my ears, cranked up as loud as I can stand it. Yes, this was definitly a bad day.
Generally, I avoid the art building. The only reason that I went was for my art class, even though our teacher encouraged us to come by and paint or draw whenever we wanted. After the Incident, I remembered that Grant took classes there and that Maria, our mutual friend, often showed up if she has free time. Today, though, I feel like I am about to bust apart at the seams, like a rag doll that has been loves by multiple generations and is now one squeeze away from falling to pieces. Keeping emotions inide has never been my strong suit, and today is no different.
Tying back my hair, I slip one of the oversized white tunics in the supply closet over my tank top. Other kids are beginning to stumble in, finding places for thier coffee and phones. Most were sketching, a few using charcoal. As far as I could tell, I was the only one getting ready to paint.
I start with a heart, anatomically correct, sketched larger than life in the middle of the paper. Aorta, ventricles, veins popping through the surface pumping blood everywhere in the body. My sketch doesn't take long, but when I stand in front of the paints cabinet, I am completely stumped. How do you color anger, rage and pain? Red, of course, a rich, dark red reminiscent of Alabama red clay. Black, purple that seems to be just a slight shimmer above black. Dark yellow-brown, the color of a healing bruise.
I put down the yellow first, to contour the edges, the purple lining the arteries leading out of the body. The organ itself is black- as black as a tar pit, as the pictures of a smoker's lung that they show you in the Drug Bus when you're a little kid. I was busy mixing up a dark red, the darkest red that you could achieve before too much black muddied it, when Mrs. Cordanza comes up behind me.
"Well," she says, stroking her chin thoughtfully, "I've seen many broken hearts in my time. But none have been quite so...intricate."
"It's not broken. Not really. It's more bruised. Beat up." I trace a finger along the edge, the purple and yellow. "It's almost broken, to the point that it's questionable if it's even functional."
"Oh." she utters, stepping back slightly, thrown of by the emotion in my voice. She places a hand on my shoulder, "There's a lot of passion in this, Cecillia. But there's a lot of pain, too. If you ever need to talk, know that my office door is always open."
Talk? I think later as I slam out of the building, Social Distortion drowning out the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears. Is that all that people want to do now? Doesn't anybody realize that talk does nothing to make life better? Look at Val: us talking has possibly put her into an even worse situation with Grant. And, of course, talking had done nothing for Maria and I; but, I guess that talking to a person who doesn't want to listen doesn't count.
There have been very few girls in my life that I have really gotten close to: Maggie in high school and Maria when I got to college. For whatever reason, I never fit in well with girls: maybe because I wasn't all that interested in clothes and shoes, or being a ditz around boys, or playing games and starting up drama
Maria was one of the first girls that I met in college. If you ask either of us now, I'm sure that neither of us would remember how we met or who introduced us. It is almost like one day I'm hanging out with Kent and Mose and, poof, the next Maria and I are joined at the hip. We talked about everything, gave each other advice, and drooled over cute guys.
I don't Maria for introducing me to Grant. I don't even really blame her for pushing the two of us to get together. She was, after all, my best friend and his self-proclaimed big sister; she just did what she thought would work out the best for the both of us. At first, she just had the two of us, her, and her boyfriend Kyle, hanging out in the Rec Center. She had him invite me to go to lunch with him and, after he expressed an interest in me, gave him my number. It was a disaster waiting to happen, though; he was nineteen and lonely, stil pinning over a girl who didn't care about him at all; I was eighteen, naive, and thinking that my best friend was just looking out for me. It seemed from the start that we were destined to fail.
While Grant and I were dating, Maria was fairly wrapped up in Kyle, so it's possible that she just didn't notice what was going on. It's also possible that it's easier to have two couples hang out and, since both she and Grants lived in the dorms and saw each other all the time, I became the throw-away friend. Whatever the reasoning, though, the outcome was the same: after the breakup, calls and texts from her became less frequent, and we stopped hanging out.
After that, I started drinking. Heavily. It was, to me, an easy way to numb the pain, and God knows that I needed to be numb. I feel too much, and everything was hitting me like a wrecking ball in the stomach. The alcohol got me out of my head, made it possible not to feel the pain, even if only for a little while. There was a short time that I delusionally believed that I could talk to her, and tell her what had really gone on, but that time passed quickly.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

I am huddled in my chair in the Rec Room, sipping coffee and pulling Grant's sweatshirt over my knees to warm up. The paper is spread in front of me, and Kent sits to my left, absorbed in the comics. Grant walks in and, as I do every day, I stand up and kiss him. He sits beside me and puts his hand on my knee, while I absent-mindedly reach up to scratch behind his ears. After a second, my phone buzzes: Wanna go to my place?
I shake my head no.
Please?
Again, I shake my head. He takes my hand and slides it down his leg.
Please?
I roll my eyes, agreeing. Anything to get some peace.
Laying on Grant's bed, twenty minutes later, curled up against his chest, I flip through the TV channels. Nothing good is on. Grant wraps his arms more tightly around me and I smile- this is how New Love is supposed to be! In the week that we have been dating, Grant hasn't shown much affection; maybe this is his way of making up for that.
His hand slides down my waist to his thigh, and he starts to stroke it softly. Subtly, I move his hand back around my waist, but he pulls my hand down to his zipper.
"Grant, what are you doing?" I demand, my voice too loud in my own ears.
"You should know; you said that you have done this before." he rolls over, kissing me.
"Grant, no. I don't want to."
"C'mon, lil' bit. Please?"
"No." I snap, trying to push him off of me.
"Cillia." he moans in my ear.
"I said no. Don't you understand English?" I push him off of me and grab my shoes, slamming the doors on my way out. My phone buzzes again: Sorry. Guess that I got a little carried away. I love you.
My heart melts: Grant has yet to say the l-word to me. Maybe this was just a mistake. I turn, walk back up the steps, and knock on the door. Opening it, Grant pulls me to him, kissing me. "I love you."
"I love you, too."

The Bar: Pt. Deux (two)

"You called me at two A.M. to ask the obvious?" Crap. She sounds angry.
"Mags, as of now i've been sitting on the beach for the last hour after spending lat night telling Grant's new girlfriend that he's not a nice guy. Am I crazy to try to help her? I mean, I can't just sit back and let another girl get hurt." I spill out in a rush.
"Woah, woah, woah. Slower."
Slowly, I begin to tell Maggie what has happened ove the past few days. She is the only one who knows the extent to which Grant has hurt me. When I finish, I can hear her sigh.
"So she won't listen to you?"
"No, that's the scary part. She listening and I think that she believes me; but she won't leave him."
Maggie is quiet, "Have you told her?"
"Oh, jeez no, Mags. Jess doesn't even know!"
"Ok. Well, here's what Aunt Maggie, the all-knowing, all-powerful healer says: go home; talk to Jess; think about telling this girl. You're not crazy, you just care."
"Maybe too much." I mumble. "Thanks, Mags."
"Sure. Remind me to smack you the next time that I see you, though."

The Bar: Pt. Deux

Abnormal Psych has got to be one of the craziest classes on this campus, I think the next day. It's Friday, 9 a.m., and most of us are just sitting around, feeling majorly under-caffeinated. (There's a rumor that the dinning hall workers make decaf and put it in both coffee urns to save monet. Sometimes, I think that it might just be true.) Dr. Buchannan, our professor, is up front, rambling on about a paper due in two weeks. Most of us, though, aren't paying any attention: he's been reminding us about this paper for at least a month; if we don't get it by now, we're already screwed. I'm sitting in the back, reading a psych magazine to see if there's anything that I can use, but coming up empty.
"Ooh key, class. I gess our tei-hmm es oop. See yew ell on Thuresday." Dr. B booms from the front of the class.
I walk out of class slowly, my head feeling full of cotton from last night's shots. My cell buzzes in my hand, like I've caught a bee in my fist, and I jump, startled. The back cover flies off, skidding across the floor to stop in front of some guy's Converse. He picks it up, smirking, and hands it to me. I smile weakly, mouthing a thank you and glancing at the screen, fully expecting Jess or Kent.
I don't immediatly recognize the number and my heart jumps into my throat: what if it's Val? What if Grant hurt her? He did leave fairly tipsy last night, well on his way to drunken la-la land.
"Hello?"
"Where the hell do you get off?" a voice roared in my ears.
"Excuse me?" I reply, shocked by such a rude welcome.
"Where do you get off telling my girlfriend that I'm some kind of monster and that you're protecting her? Just 'cause I dumped your ass doesn't mean you can go spreading crap about me. That's slander."
"Oh. Hi, Grant." I intone, my voice automatically dropping an octave.
"You know that I treated you like a fucking queen while we dated and this is how you repay it? Somehow I thought that you were more mature than to paint me as the big, bad wolf just because you're hurt that I dumped you."
"You are the big, bad wolf, Grant. I just thought that it was fair to tell her that you're not all butterflies and rainbows. So, goodbye, Grant." I click off the phone, feeling as if I can't catch my breath, and sit on the steps, putting my head between my leg and taking deep breaths.
Once again I've escaped to the kitchen during shift: I have a Spanish final coming up and have used all of my spare time to cram. Sitting on the floor, Jeff and I try to converse only en espanol, when Lynnie rushes in.
"Baby, I think that you need to come out here." she says softly, patting the dark brown hair falling out of her usually smooth ponytail.
"What's wrong, Momma?"
"En espanol, por favor!" Jeff sings from the stove.
"Ay, Dios, Vito." I cry, rolling my eyes.
"See," he laughs, "you're getting better."
Lynnie ignores our bickering, looking on with an indulgent smile. "Carrie's ex is here and she's got him out in the parking lot." She shrugs: this sort of thing happens all the time and, over the years, she's gotten more or less used to it. "Anywat, now all we got is me, and these old bones don't move the way they used to."
I stand up, already tying on my apron. "Kay, Momma. Gracias, Jeff."
In between the drunk gulping down whiskey like there was no tomorrow and the blonde-apparently on the lookout for men-sipping a Cosmo, I spot a dark head duck into the bar. Back at the bar, while I refill the whiskey glass yet again, I'm confronted by a tearful Val.
"You look terrible." I blurt, unsure of what the protocol is for this. I'd never quite understood the subtle nuances of being a teenaged female, but was sure that if you told your boyfriend that his ex has called him a monster, you don't go apologize the next day; that is, unless you're a Drama Queen, which, honestly, Val seems way too timid to be.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." she blubbers, mascara streaking down her face. "I begged him to just leave it, to not make a big deal about it. I didn't even know that he had called you until about an hour ago and I didn't have your number and I felt so terrible." she stops to take a breath and I hold up my hand.
"Ok. Well, when we left, Grant was pretty drunk, and it was late, so I figured that I'd just take him back to his dorm and stay the night-you know, to make sure that he was ok." I nod, my memory assaulted with the memories of all the times that I had done the exact same thing for the exact same reasons. "Well, when we got back, I put him on the bed and I go to put on one of his shirts to sleep in, and I guess that while I was changing the paper fell out of my pocket. He asked why I had your phone number and...well, it all went downhill from there." she stops, spluttering out, and sees me axiously looking her over: no bruises that I could see. Good.
"He didn't...hurt you...did he?" I ask, quietly.
"No!" she replies, shocked, "He would never hurt me. Would he?"
"He might, but I seriously doubt it." I answer, trying to sound confident and sure of myself.
"Cecillia?"
"Yeah?"
She sounds torn, as if she both wants to know and, at the same time, doesn't. "Did he ever hurt you?"
"I'm worried about you 'cause I know that he's not a nice guy." I reply.
When Val leaves, I hug her tightly. Despite being so timid and shy, she is incredibly strong-it takes that kind of strength, both to apologize and to believe what I am telling her.
"There goes one hell of a strong woman." I sigh to Kerr when she leaves.
"Why's that, hon?"
"Takes some kind of crazy strength to believe what I'm telling her." I answer. "I sure wasn't that strong when I was dating Grant. If some ex of his had told me half of what i've told her, I would have called her nuts and left it at that. But I feel...I don't know. Almost like I have some crazy obligation to her, like I have to help protect her."
Kerr put his hand over mine, squeezing it in a comforting, almost paternal way. "That shows a lot of strength, Baby. It takes strength to fight the evils that we see."
That night, after last call, I drive down to the beach. It was about a quarter after one, windy and cold, but still beautiful and peaceful. The cool, white slips between my toes as I settle, about three feet from the water. A lightning storm was starting up, far out in the Gulf, lighting up the whole sky like some giant, cosmic being is taking a picture. It is beautiful.
Suddenly, I want desperatly to swim out in the water, out to where the lightning hit, and save a piece, keeping it in a jar to keep the beauty. Stripping off all of my clothes, I pile them on the sand and wade out into the water, wondering if this was how Virginnia Woolfe started. After another flash lights up the sky and water around me, I turn and head back to the shore: beauty is so fleeting; if you can catch it, will it, somehow, still be beauty?
I sit, shivering in the sand, trying to light up a cigarette as Val's words keep playing in my head: Did he ever hurt you?
The phone is ringing. Six times, seven tmes, eight times, nine times.
"Hello?" a sleepy voice cracks over the line. Thank you, God.
"Am I crazy?"
"What? Cecillia? What time is it?" I can hear Maggie groping around for her glasses.
"Little after two my time. So, am I?" I realize, maybe a little too late,that this is not the best question to ask right now.

*Flashback*

The shower is going full blast, steaming up not just the bathroom, but the whole dorm. It is cold outside and, while the steam felt good now, I am sure that it will go quickly to being humid enough to choke an elephant. Fall Out Boy is on Grant's radio, and I am sitting cross-legged on his bed, trying to figure out a Trig proof.
"I don't blame you/ for being you/ but you can't blame me/ for hating it/ so say what are you waiting for/ kiss her, kiss her/ I set my clock early 'cause you know/ I'm always late." he sings, off-key, from the bathroom, turning off the water and coming out with a towel  around his hair. Playfully, he flics the towel and me and I squeal, gathering my books to my chest.
"Hey, c'mon." I laugh, "Get dressed, i'm starving out here!" He walks over, boxers in hand, and leans me back over the bed, kissing me.
"Grant!" I while, putting my hands on his chest. "No! Not now/"
"But, lil' bit." he pleads, rubbbing his hand between my legs through my jeans.
"No." I curl up, locking my knees together and, reluctantly, he gets up. Sulking now, he walks over to the bathroom mirror and starts to comb his hair.
"Gah, you're such a fucking prude."
I get up, "A prude who's already slept with you twice this week." I reply, coming up behind him and runing my hands over his shoulder blades, kissing the point between them. "My horny little pup." I joke. In the mirror, Grant smiles, and I begin to breathe a little easier.
A few minutes later, we stand in lne for food in the dinning hall. Tall, blonde, stickthin blondes saunter by, making me feel more than just a little self-concious.
"Babe?" I say as we sit down. Grant glances up, showing fleeting acknowledgement. "Do you think that I'm pretty?" It's the typical question for your boyfriend. Of course, the typical response is: of course I do, sweetheart! You're beautiful! Even if you know deep down that he's full of it, at least you feel marginally better.
"Well.." he stares at his pizza. "You're cute, but you're plain. I mean, you'd be gorgeous...if you, maybe wore makeup more? Or lost some weight? Or even if you got contacts. I mean, glasses are cute and all, but contacts are just sexy." he looks up and catches me cringing. "What?"
I push my cheeseburger away. "Nothing. Never mind." I say, sipping my sweet tea slowly.

Inside the fire

I'm sure that hearing "Like a Virgin" karaoke twenty times in one night should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. It was Thursday night, two weeks before Spring Break, and I was pulling midnight for Lee and Toni at the bar. Tugging down my skirt, I silently cursed Bob, the owner, for setting up the stupid machine in the first place, and myself for not letting the drunks smash it during a fight.
"Is that seriously all that people know how to sing?" I yell to Kerr, our bartender.
"Hey, give them a break." he shrugs, wiping out a glass, "I mean, how can you screw up Madonna?" I laugh, sitting on an empty stoold and watching the overweight CEO who had been hitting on me for the past hour get up to sing "Sweet Home Alabama".
I roll my eyes, "Oh, God, here it goes."
"Ain't that bad. Could be much worse."
"Really?"I pull a face, "How is that even possible?"
"Well, could be 'Free Bird'."
"Thank you, God, for small miracles." I reply as the drunk on stage forgets the words, tries to improv with "Stairway to Heaven" and drunkenly finishes with the Brady Bunch theme song. "And for cheap entertainment."
"Yeah," Kerr replies, staring off into the distance, "Isn't that your boyfriend?"
My smile grows wider: ever since a few nights ago, Jess has taken to come in with his biker friends, just to check up. Lately, he'd began treting me as if I were made of blown glass-an object that was beautiful to look at but incredibly delicate; something that you had to take care not to break, because the damage could be done so quickly and was almost impossible to fix.
I spin on my stool, eager to catch his eye, when I realize with a jolt that it wasn't Jess that Kerr was talking about.
It played out almost like a slow-motion movie: the crowd seems to part, bringing me (practically) face-to-face with my ex, Grant, standing next to a plain puppy-dog girl who barely reaches his waist and is gazing up at him adoringly. I know that look. I'd worn that look for practically six months: She was totally in love, and he couldn't care any less.
I close my eyes, trying to keep my tone calm, "Nope. Too bad, though. Hey, could you get Carrie off her butt? I"m gonna need a cig before I try to wade through that sea of hands again."
Kerr winks. He's no stranger to being hit on by those in  various stages of inebriation. "Sure, Baby. Yo! Goose! Showtime!" he calls down the bar to one of the other waitresses.
Taking off my apron, I quickly walk behind the bar, through the doors that led to the kitchen, and into the back alleyway behind it. Sitting on one of the overturned milk crate that served as makeshift chairs, I put my head between my knees and begin to take deep breaths.
"Baby? You ok?" Jeff, our cook, asks. I look up, surprised that I hadn't seen him before, sitting about three feet away, eating a sandwich.
"Yeah, Jeff. Sorry. Didn't see you there."
"Es ok." he nods, waving his hand as if he were whisking away smoke. "You're sure you're ok? You ran outta there like you were runnin' from Freddy Kreuger." he peers at me through the darkness, "And you look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine. Just...too many people." I lie, "I get a bit claustrophobic sometimes."
"Oh, thank God, Cecillia" Carrie sighs when I walk back in."This guy's been asking for you, he wants you special for his table."
Rolling my eyes and bracing myself for the drunk CEO, I look to where Carrie is pointing and freeze. There was a flash of dirty blonde, almost brown hair. I turn to beg and plead, if needed, with Carrie to take that table instead of making me take it, but she has already been swallowed up by the crowd.
Shakily, I make my way over, pasting on a huge fake smile. Grant tried to be the king of screwing with people's (most notably my) head, and i was sure that was all that this was. I, however, wasn't going to let him see me sweat.
"Hey, yall. What can I getcha?" I look up for just one second too long. Grant's hair has grown past his ears and I could tell that he had shaved recently, but not today, the pale stubble glowing even in the dim light of the bar. He looks marginally more tanned, and his hair looks darker- vaguely, I wonder if he's dyed it. The Girl's hand was on the table, palm-up in the vain hope that he would hold it, but both of his remained firmly in his lap. Her hair was long and dark brown, tied back at the nape of her neck, and he face was full of freckles. In a word, she was the poster child of what he once told me that he liked in a girl: plain.
"Hey! Long time no see, lil' bit." Grant grins his fairy-tale wolf grin.
The Girl looks confused, "You know her?" The tone isn't angry, just hurt. Less of a "you bastard", more of a "why didn't you tell me, darling?"
I bite my lip, fighting back quite a few answers-all of which would be considered rude in normal company. "Drinks, yall?"
The bar is slowing down and I sit on a stool beside Kerr, busily shaking martinis for the Desperate Housewives, and mixing hard drinks for the Men in the Throes of Midlife Crisis. We aren't supposed to drink when we're on shift, but after the third time that Grant waves me to bring him another, I wearily ask Kerr for a shot-something strong.
"That bad?" he inclines his head as I knock back a shot-tequilla.
"You have no idea. The guy's a jerk. She's in awe of him. He gets, " I swallow hard, "he gets mean when he drinks."
He slides another shot to me. I'm feeling a happy buzz after it and wave off the offer of another.
Grant waves at me again while the girl gets up, heading our way. Carrie intercepts Grant's request just as the girl looks around and comes straight for me.
"'Scuse me? Could you tell me where the ladies' is?" her voice is quiet, timid. I'm starting to see more why Grant latched on to her.
"Yeah, I'll show you." I answer, walking her toward the back hallway that hides the bathrooms from view. She goes into a stall and I absent-mindedly pat my hair in the mirror, finally pulling out the elastic and holding it in my teeth as I twist my hair up into a bun. She comes out, surprised that I am still standing there.
"Look..." I trail off, not knowing her name and raising my eyebrows to indicate as much.
"Val." she supplies after a second.
I curse inwardly, wondering if this could get much more difficult. Grant had told me about Val when he and I were dating: she had been in his Chemistry class and was totally in love with him. There had been quite a few afternoons that were punctuated by her random calls and texts. I wonder vaguely why he's with her and decide that is exactly who he doesn't pay her any attention: he wants the ego boost of a girl who worships him, without all the messy complication of reciprocated feelings.
"Look, Val, you were right. Grant and I did date. And I just want to tell you: Grant? He's not a good guy. He can put on the act, yes, but that's all that it is- an act."
She looks surprised. And angry. "He is a sweet guy!" she protests. "See, i'm a..." she trails off, her face blushing crimson under her freckles, "virgin. And he promised me no sex at all." She fiddles with a leather bracelet that I recognize as one of his, one of the things he never took off, and sigh: she isn't going to listen.
"Listen, Val, I understand. If you wanna talk, though, here. I"ll give you my number, kay?" I tear a sheet out of my orders book and scribble my number on it, handing it to her.
"Ok...Cecillia." She answers, glancing at the paper before she folds it up and sticks it in her pocket.
Jess is curled up on my bed when I get home, half-asleep and mumbling to himself. I undress quietly, not wanting to wake him, and curl up in my chair.

Guess Who (pt.2)

It had been a week- a week where I became little less than a zombie. I got up, went to clas, went to work, came home, ignored Jess' cals and texts, studied, wandered around the neighborhood until I was exhausted, slept for a couple of hours (if I was lucky), then did it all again.
Jess had never been a patient guy: when I was first getting to know him, he regularly complained about the girls who didn't call, or who kept breaking dates. When we started dating, though, he seemed to change: if I was busy, he came back later; if I had to study, he kept me on task; if I didn't want to talk, he didn't push me to, and chewed anyone out who did.
But, no matter how bad I felt, I'd never just blown him off like I was doing now. Vaguely, I wondered how long it would be before he just quit calling.
One night, as I sat up reading about Monet for an Art lecture the next day, I heard a tap on my window. Slowly, it opens, emitting Jess who looks at me critically, sighs, pulls off his jacket, and throws it into a chair.
"You look like shit." he announces, plopping down on the bed beside me.
"Wow, thanks Jess. That's just what every girl wants to hear." I answer sarcastically, moving a little further away from him. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me back.
"So, baby, do you wanna tell me why you've just left me hanging?"
"Not especially. Do you wanna tell me why you've decided that breaking and entering is the way to go?"
He looks sheepish, "I've been driving by every night to make sure that you were ok. I've been worried about you."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Jess wraps his arms around my waist, kissing my hairline, "Baby, i've been your friend for, what, five years? I won't make you talk, but I hope you'll trust me enough to tell me. It doesn't have to be now- just one day."

In the Beginning (Or At Least What Passes For It)

[Work in Progress]

 

“The bird that would soar above the level plan of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.” – Kate Chopin, The Awakening

“Most things break, including hearts. The lesions of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus.”- Wallace Stegner

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that n the process he does not become a monster. For when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”-Nietzsche

“Love casts out fear; but conversely fear casts out love. And not only love. Fear also casts out intelligence, casts out goodness, casts out all thought of beauty and truth. There is no longer a man among his fellow men, no longer a rational being speaking articulately to other rational beings…For in the end fear casts out even a man’s humanity.”-Aldous Huxley

 

In the Beginning (Or, At least, What Passes For It)

Like the brilliant, crazy, funny, cynical-as-hell Frank Zappa once said, “I never set out to be weird.” Sure, I guess that you could say having a Grandma who has millions of rabbit statuettes scattered across her lawn is a little out of the ordinary. And, of course, an overweight mother who gardens in her string bikini (in the dead of winter, no less) is not exactly the norm. Neither, let us not forget, is having a best friend who runs around in a kilt throwing giant logs (ah, those Scots, who believe that we like to see a man’s pale, hairy legs. )

Of course, many could argue that with a family like that, there was no hope for me being normal. Up North, people like us are called crazy, and seen as one step short of the loony bin. Down here, though, we are just called eccentric, and kept away from the family gatherings most of the time. Long ago, I accepted this was my life and I might as well make the best of it.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, washing out the blacks of the night and making everything seem uniformly grey. I sat out on the roof, smoking a cigarette and thinking, just as I had since about eight o’clock the night before when I’d crawled out here. Inside, my cell phone buzzed, its alarm set in the hope of the day before that I might sleep. Wishful thinking my best friend, and sometimes kilt-wearing musician, Kent would say. Nope, I’d answer, more of my mind realizing that if I don’t get some sleep soon, my body will completely shut down on me.

Crawling back inside to silence it, I flicked the cigarette butt out onto the roof and smashed it with my shoe, then tossed my battered, used copy of Junky onto my bed. When I picked up my phone, I was surprised to see that I had a half-dozen missed texts (mostly Kent) and two missed calls. Thinking back, I did remember hearing my phone go off during the night, but deciding to ignore it-mostly just because I hadn’t remembered to bring it outside with me, and didn’t want to crawl back inside to get it.

The first was my weekly call from Grandma. She held the phone that Granpa had bought her way too close, breathing heavily into the receiver and causing a fair amount of static to kick up whenever she moved it around. Her softly lilting voice, tinged with a Wiregrass twang, seemed louder, and there was an almost continual buzzing from her recently-acquired hearing aid: Hey Cecillia! It’s about eight forty-five. We were just calling to check on you, see how you were. Call us back. Love you! Bye-bye.

Making a mental note to drop by later- both to show them that I was, in fact, still alive, and hopefully for some pound cake that Grandma baked religiously every Thursday- I deleted the message and moved on. ‘

The smoke-scratchy voice of my boyfriend, Jess, greeted me next, his voice, as always, sounding even better over the phone: Hey, C, just wanted to see if you were ok. Haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. It’s about…nine thirty, so I guess that you’re asleep, but, uh, call me back when you can, kay? Ok. Bye, babygirl

Even though it was just now after six, I knew that he would be up, his bright blue eyes glowing in the light of his first cigarette of the day, his tangled blonde hair tangled around his shoulders from sleep. Jess, unlike so many before him, was the one who understood. He got how nuts my family was, and had seen the proof, but it didn’t bother him like it had his predecessor. He was the first to really take care of me, to love me. He also was one of Those Guys- the ones who desperately want to be somebody else. His hair was long, his lip was pierced, and he had a full back-piece tattoo. Like a modern day James Dean or a Henry Fonda, circa Easy Rider, he wanted to be a Rebel Without A Cause, a campaign strengthened by the biker jacket and steel-toed boots, but hindered by the Aeropostal and Abercrombie under said jacket.

He rolled his eyes at my William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, my Frank Zappa, Janis Joplin, and Social Distortion. He always laughed at my dead-on imitations of the jocks and cheerleaders who still haunted my classes, even in college. He sneered at my Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and my friends who spent all their free time playing Dungeons and Dragons. He was a little bit sweet, a little bit of a jerk, the smallest bit dangerous- but that is what made it all seem worthwhile.

An hour later, I sat on the kitchen floor, eyes glued on the SpongeBob rerun on TV, eatng a piece of cold pizza when Kent walks in.

“Hey, Cill, you ‘bout ready?” he asks, pulling a slice of pizza out of a box on the stove.

“Just ‘bout.” I replied, my eyes still glued to the screen. “This is the one where Squidward totally loses it ‘cause of the stupid stuffed animal machine.”

Kent sighed good-naturedly, and flipped the TV off. “Cill, I think that you’ve been watching too much SpongeBob.”

Crawling into the passenger’s seat of Kent’s car, I was thankful, yet again, that he drove us to school most of the time. While it has yet to be proven by some brain at Harvard or Yale, I was almost positive that driving in the deep South of Lower Alabama could be hazardous to your health- both physical and mental. Trivial things like turn signals or red lights were often ignored here, and often people parking took up two or three spots at a time. It was like some sick, twisted game: it’s time to play How Many Spots Can We Take Up!

While I fiddled with the radio dials- Kent was more of a “Christian rock” (an oxymoron that, in my opinion, was only eclipsed by “Christian rap”) guy while I was more of a classic rock person- Kent slid his hand up under the seat, producing a small, fuzzy beige teddy bear.

“I found her at the flea market last weekend. She was too cute not to take home.” He smiled, passing her over to me.

My brain did what I believe should be called “brain whip lash”: it ran forward, through all of the “appropriate” responses (aka, what Mom taught you to say to be polite), stopped briefly at “Aww, that’s so cute”, then reversed so fast that it almost felt it hit the back of my skull and reverberate.

“What the hell, Kent? I told you not to!” I yelled, while the mother-figure in my head slapped herself in the forehead and wondered where she had gone wrong.

For the last however many years that Kent and I had been friends, he had bought me a teddy bear. Neither of us could remember why this started, all that we knew was that now it was tradition. After Bear Number Twelve, though, I’d put my foot down: no more bears. I’d put all of them into storage except two-the first one that he had ever given me, called Snow White because of its fluffy white fur (even though, after twelve years it could be the lost eight dwarf, Grungy) and the black bear from last year. Kent reluctantly agreed to the arrangement, and I was fairly mad that he’d broken it.

Kent grinned goofily, “But she wanted me to buy her! She was calling out for me!” his voice switched to a high squeaky falsetto, “Kent! Buy me, Kent! Cil will love my cuddliness, Kent!”

Rolling my eyes, I put the bear on the seat beside me, “Kent, have you been skipping your meds again? ‘Cause when the teddy bears start talking to you, that’s really when I start to worry.”

There was another agreement that Kent and I had: I could listen to whatever I wanted, just as long as I didn’t sing along to Queen. After the third straight day that I bumbled my way through “Fat Bottomed Girls”, Kent had put that rule into effect. But today we were in luck: I knew all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

“Gah, Cil! Make it stop!”

“I see a little sillhouetto of a man. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the fandango? Thunderbolts and lightening, very, very frightening! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo, Figaro! Magnificoo-oo-oo!”

“Really, Cill, do you want me to wreck?”

”I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me. He’s just a poor boy, from a poor family, spare him his life from this monstrosity.”

“ Cill, really, I’ll stop with the bears!”

“Easy come, easy go, will you let me go? Ismilla, no! We will not let you go! Let me go! Ismilla, we will not let you go! Let me go! Never let you go! Let him go!”

“Don’t care what you say, Cillia. Totally worth it.”

Despite the fact that it was just after eight (also known, more popularly, as “oh, god, why do these classes have to start so damn early” o’clock) the lot was mostly full when Kent pulled n. He hurried off to his Art lecture while I went in search of the college kid’s Holy Grail- hot, hot, strong coffee that will possibly keep you awake through yet another interminable Trig lecture. Possibly.

Back in high school, all of the cliques had their own meeting places. Maybe it was under the bleachers (Future Potheads of America), the front steps (Future Fascists of America, aka, the Preps), or the back steps to the quad (Freaks, Geeks, and Exiles). College, despite what everyone says, is no different. The smokers sat outside next to the loading docks, where- in the immortal words of Prince- there was a perpetual Purple Haze. Jocks, of course, had the weight room. Preps had the couches crowded around the flats screen TV in the Student Center. The pseudo-intellectuals had the tiled coffee shop-like atmosphere convieniently located in front of the rip-off Starbucks. My people (again, the Freaks, Geeks, and Exiles who are just realizing that they will soon own all of the people who have thus far made their lives a living hell) had the rec room: a collection of pool tables always missing balls, high tables where you got hit with a pool cue if you sat, couches that were only marginally comfortable, and an air hockey table usually just filled with textbooks and bags.

The front pool table was crowded with the almost never-ending group of Magic players (By the way, in case you didn’t know: Magic is a card game that is kind of the bastard love child of Pokemon, D and D, and a really bad acid trip. Yeah, I don’t get it either.) that changed throughout the day, but in very subtle ways so that you would never notice unless you were really paying attention.

Throwing my bags carelessly onto the air hockey table, I walked over, slipping into a chair beside my friend Mose. His thick biceps bulged as he looked over his cards, glancing my way fleetingly to acknowledge my prescence. I pointed to a brightly colored card, “Play her, she’s pretty!” I joked. Although the guys had offered multiple times to teach me how to play Magic, I’d always refused, staying- at least in my mind- blissfully ignorant.

“Tap three. Gain two life.” His opponent, Jacob, said, smiling and glancing at the clock. “Crap! Chem test in five minutes.” Hastily he began throwing his books and cards into his bag.

“Just remember, Jake.” I call after him, “If you get stuck, the answer is always 42.”

“Unless Griffin turned into a huge fan of Douglas Adams overnight, I doubt he’ll be amused.” He replied, turning and attempting to tap dance, Fred Astair-style. “So long, so long, and thanks for all the fish!”

Mose smiles and puts a brotherly arm around me. “So, how are you today, Cecillia? It’s good to hear you laugh again.”

I rock my hand back and forth, “Eh..comme ce, comme ca. I have my good days and my bad days.” Looking around, I spot the familiar blue cap in the crowd at the table farthest away from the door and feel that old, familiar feeling, a sensation of simultaneous hot and cold that ran down my breastbone into my stomach, making it knot up. My face flushed hot, then cold, and suddenly felt clammy, my arms breaking into goosebumps and needles pricking the scar running the length of my left arm. It will be a year in May, yet my body still reacted primally with fear.

Mose was smiling- I guess that he’s said something and I hoped he didn’t expect a response. Looking for a quick way out, I looked up at the clock. “Shoot! Trig lecture in five minutes!”

The one good thing about Trig, in general, is that you have to focus because it’s so complicated. If you zone out, contemplating your problems even for a second, more often than not you’ve lost an essential part of some problem and, therefore, are lost for the rest of the lecture. The other, more specific, good thing about Trig is my teacher: a huge German named Krausfielt who was as tall as the door, wears jeans and sandals to class, and ends every other sentence with “Ja?” Heck yes.

Grandma and Granpa had lived in the dame house for the majority of the fifty-some odd years that they had been married: a huge two story with a backyard littered with hundreds of rabbit statuettes, and the turtle-shaped pool that my older brother Jayson and I had splashed in as toddlers.

Almost before I even ring the doorbell, Grandma flings open the door and pulls me into a rib-crushing hug. She overlooks (probably on purpose) the red streaks that I had given myself a few days before and ushers me into the kitchen where Ms. Hooper- one of her oldest friends- sits sipping a glass of tea.

“Well, Cecillia!” she booms in her deep, raspy voice. “You just get prettier every time that I see you!” she stands, a huge woman who makes people sit up and take notice. She is six foot two if she is an inch, and her clothes- a black cardigan over Day-Glo green stretch pants- draws your attention if all else failed. I gave her the obligatory hug, which was how I had greeted all of Grandma’s friends since birth, and smiled.

Grandma sits down, “There’s pound cake on the counter, Cecillia.” She says, motioning to her glass cake plate. While Grandma and Ms. Hooper resume their conversation, I fix a plate and some milk.

“I’ll tell you, Theresa, if I had a penny for every time that Jane Masters gave an excuse not to help with the Christmas dinner, I would be a very rich woman.” Ms. Hooper’s spoon clinks the side of her coffee cup as she speaks.

“You’re coming to the Christmas dinner, aren’t you, Cecillia?” Grandma asks over her shoulder.

Every December, their church threw a holiday party in the high school’s gym. There was food and mistletoe, pony and sleigh rides, a live Nativity scene and a Santa Claus. It was all so cutesy that it made me want to throw up- or at least throw something. Since Jayson was born, Grandma had dragged the family to it. After Jay turned thirteen, he refused to go and Mom, claiming that she was slammed with her classed, beggared off, too. But, even if just to make Grandma and Granpa happy, I’d continued going every year.

“Of course, Grandma.” I smile.

Ms. Hooper grins like an adult who believes she is so “hip” and “in the know” about the doings of teenagers. “I know that Charlie will be so glad to see you, Cecillia.”

Charlie Manson (yes, go ahead and laugh, everyone else does) was one of the most vile, creepy boys that I had ever met. He was also Ms. Hooper’s grandson. Ever since I was a year old and he was six months, we had been pushed together; and, ever since I could toddle, I had stayed as far away from him as I could. Puberty had given him long black hair that reminded me of an oil slick and looked like it ate combs, as well as sallow skin that seemed to ooze grease. His breath, no matter how many breath mints he swallowed, could strip furniture. He referred to girls as “chicks” and usually addressed them as either “babe” or “sweet thang” (yes, you read that right, that’s “thang” spelled with an “a” which, to most of us, is even more offensive). And, at every single holiday function, he stuck to me, trying to paw me on the sleigh ride, at Palm Sunday, at the Easter egg hunt, working at Vacation Bible School. The boy was utterly relentless and didn’t take a hint.

Despite all of this, though, I did what Mom, Grandma, and various aunts had drilled into me since I could speak: I acted like a lady. “And I’m so happy that I will get to see him, too, Ms. Hooper.”


















[Work in Progress]

 

“The bird that would soar above the level plan of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.” – Kate Chopin, The Awakening

“Most things break, including hearts. The lesions of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus.”- Wallace Stegner

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that n the process he does not become a monster. For when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”-Nietzsche

“Love casts out fear; but conversely fear casts out love. And not only love. Fear also casts out intelligence, casts out goodness, casts out all thought of beauty and truth. There is no longer a man among his fellow men, no longer a rational being speaking articulately to other rational beings…For in the end fear casts out even a man’s humanity.”-Aldous Huxley

 

In the Beginning (Or, At least, What Passes For It)

Like the brilliant, crazy, funny, cynical-as-hell Frank Zappa once said, “I never set out to be weird.” Sure, I guess that you could say having a Grandma who has millions of rabbit statuettes scattered across her lawn is a little out of the ordinary. And, of course, an overweight mother who gardens in her string bikini (in the dead of winter, no less) is not exactly the norm. Neither, let us not forget, is having a best friend who runs around in a kilt throwing giant logs (ah, those Scots, who believe that we like to see a man’s pale, hairy legs. )

Of course, many could argue that with a family like that, there was no hope for me being normal. Up North, people like us are called crazy, and seen as one step short of the loony bin. Down here, though, we are just called eccentric, and kept away from the family gatherings most of the time. Long ago, I accepted this was my life and I might as well make the best of it.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, washing out the blacks of the night and making everything seem uniformly grey. I sat out on the roof, smoking a cigarette and thinking, just as I had since about eight o’clock the night before when I’d crawled out here. Inside, my cell phone buzzed, its alarm set in the hope of the day before that I might sleep. Wishful thinking my best friend, and sometimes kilt-wearing musician, Kent would say. Nope, I’d answer, more of my mind realizing that if I don’t get some sleep soon, my body will completely shut down on me.

Crawling back inside to silence it, I flicked the cigarette butt out onto the roof and smashed it with my shoe, then tossed my battered, used copy of Junky onto my bed. When I picked up my phone, I was surprised to see that I had a half-dozen missed texts (mostly Kent) and two missed calls. Thinking back, I did remember hearing my phone go off during the night, but deciding to ignore it-mostly just because I hadn’t remembered to bring it outside with me, and didn’t want to crawl back inside to get it.

The first was my weekly call from Grandma. She held the phone that Granpa had bought her way too close, breathing heavily into the receiver and causing a fair amount of static to kick up whenever she moved it around. Her softly lilting voice, tinged with a Wiregrass twang, seemed louder, and there was an almost continual buzzing from her recently-acquired hearing aid: Hey Cecillia! It’s about eight forty-five. We were just calling to check on you, see how you were. Call us back. Love you! Bye-bye.

Making a mental note to drop by later- both to show them that I was, in fact, still alive, and hopefully for some pound cake that Grandma baked religiously every Thursday- I deleted the message and moved on. ‘

The smoke-scratchy voice of my boyfriend, Jess, greeted me next, his voice, as always, sounding even better over the phone: Hey, C, just wanted to see if you were ok. Haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. It’s about…nine thirty, so I guess that you’re asleep, but, uh, call me back when you can, kay? Ok. Bye, babygirl

Even though it was just now after six, I knew that he would be up, his bright blue eyes glowing in the light of his first cigarette of the day, his tangled blonde hair tangled around his shoulders from sleep. Jess, unlike so many before him, was the one who understood. He got how nuts my family was, and had seen the proof, but it didn’t bother him like it had his predecessor. He was the first to really take care of me, to love me. He also was one of Those Guys- the ones who desperately want to be somebody else. His hair was long, his lip was pierced, and he had a full back-piece tattoo. Like a modern day James Dean or a Henry Fonda, circa Easy Rider, he wanted to be a Rebel Without A Cause, a campaign strengthened by the biker jacket and steel-toed boots, but hindered by the Aeropostal and Abercrombie under said jacket.

He rolled his eyes at my William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, my Frank Zappa, Janis Joplin, and Social Distortion. He always laughed at my dead-on imitations of the jocks and cheerleaders who still haunted my classes, even in college. He sneered at my Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and my friends who spent all their free time playing Dungeons and Dragons. He was a little bit sweet, a little bit of a jerk, the smallest bit dangerous- but that is what made it all seem worthwhile.

An hour later, I sat on the kitchen floor, eyes glued on the SpongeBob rerun on TV, eatng a piece of cold pizza when Kent walks in.

“Hey, Cill, you ‘bout ready?” he asks, pulling a slice of pizza out of a box on the stove.

“Just ‘bout.” I replied, my eyes still glued to the screen. “This is the one where Squidward totally loses it ‘cause of the stupid stuffed animal machine.”

Kent sighed good-naturedly, and flipped the TV off. “Cill, I think that you’ve been watching too much SpongeBob.”

Crawling into the passenger’s seat of Kent’s car, I was thankful, yet again, that he drove us to school most of the time. While it has yet to be proven by some brain at Harvard or Yale, I was almost positive that driving in the deep South of Lower Alabama could be hazardous to your health- both physical and mental. Trivial things like turn signals or red lights were often ignored here, and often people parking took up two or three spots at a time. It was like some sick, twisted game: it’s time to play How Many Spots Can We Take Up!

While I fiddled with the radio dials- Kent was more of a “Christian rock” (an oxymoron that, in my opinion, was only eclipsed by “Christian rap”) guy while I was more of a classic rock person- Kent slid his hand up under the seat, producing a small, fuzzy beige teddy bear.

“I found her at the flea market last weekend. She was too cute not to take home.” He smiled, passing her over to me.

My brain did what I believe should be called “brain whip lash”: it ran forward, through all of the “appropriate” responses (aka, what Mom taught you to say to be polite), stopped briefly at “Aww, that’s so cute”, then reversed so fast that it almost felt it hit the back of my skull and reverberate.

“What the hell, Kent? I told you not to!” I yelled, while the mother-figure in my head slapped herself in the forehead and wondered where she had gone wrong.

For the last however many years that Kent and I had been friends, he had bought me a teddy bear. Neither of us could remember why this started, all that we knew was that now it was tradition. After Bear Number Twelve, though, I’d put my foot down: no more bears. I’d put all of them into storage except two-the first one that he had ever given me, called Snow White because of its fluffy white fur (even though, after twelve years it could be the lost eight dwarf, Grungy) and the black bear from last year. Kent reluctantly agreed to the arrangement, and I was fairly mad that he’d broken it.

Kent grinned goofily, “But she wanted me to buy her! She was calling out for me!” his voice switched to a high squeaky falsetto, “Kent! Buy me, Kent! Cil will love my cuddliness, Kent!”

Rolling my eyes, I put the bear on the seat beside me, “Kent, have you been skipping your meds again? ‘Cause when the teddy bears start talking to you, that’s really when I start to worry.”

There was another agreement that Kent and I had: I could listen to whatever I wanted, just as long as I didn’t sing along to Queen. After the third straight day that I bumbled my way through “Fat Bottomed Girls”, Kent had put that rule into effect. But today we were in luck: I knew all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

“Gah, Cil! Make it stop!”

“I see a little sillhouetto of a man. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the fandango? Thunderbolts and lightening, very, very frightening! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo! Galileo, Figaro! Magnificoo-oo-oo!”

“Really, Cill, do you want me to wreck?”

”I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me. He’s just a poor boy, from a poor family, spare him his life from this monstrosity.”

“ Cill, really, I’ll stop with the bears!”

“Easy come, easy go, will you let me go? Ismilla, no! We will not let you go! Let me go! Ismilla, we will not let you go! Let me go! Never let you go! Let him go!”

“Don’t care what you say, Cillia. Totally worth it.”

Despite the fact that it was just after eight (also known, more popularly, as “oh, god, why do these classes have to start so damn early” o’clock) the lot was mostly full when Kent pulled n. He hurried off to his Art lecture while I went in search of the college kid’s Holy Grail- hot, hot, strong coffee that will possibly keep you awake through yet another interminable Trig lecture. Possibly.

Back in high school, all of the cliques had their own meeting places. Maybe it was under the bleachers (Future Potheads of America), the front steps (Future Fascists of America, aka, the Preps), or the back steps to the quad (Freaks, Geeks, and Exiles). College, despite what everyone says, is no different. The smokers sat outside next to the loading docks, where- in the immortal words of Prince- there was a perpetual Purple Haze. Jocks, of course, had the weight room. Preps had the couches crowded around the flats screen TV in the Student Center. The pseudo-intellectuals had the tiled coffee shop-like atmosphere convieniently located in front of the rip-off Starbucks. My people (again, the Freaks, Geeks, and Exiles who are just realizing that they will soon own all of the people who have thus far made their lives a living hell) had the rec room: a collection of pool tables always missing balls, high tables where you got hit with a pool cue if you sat, couches that were only marginally comfortable, and an air hockey table usually just filled with textbooks and bags.

The front pool table was crowded with the almost never-ending group of Magic players (By the way, in case you didn’t know: Magic is a card game that is kind of the bastard love child of Pokemon, D and D, and a really bad acid trip. Yeah, I don’t get it either.) that changed throughout the day, but in very subtle ways so that you would never notice unless you were really paying attention.

Throwing my bags carelessly onto the air hockey table, I walked over, slipping into a chair beside my friend Mose. His thick biceps bulged as he looked over his cards, glancing my way fleetingly to acknowledge my prescence. I pointed to a brightly colored card, “Play her, she’s pretty!” I joked. Although the guys had offered multiple times to teach me how to play Magic, I’d always refused, staying- at least in my mind- blissfully ignorant.

“Tap three. Gain two life.” His opponent, Jacob, said, smiling and glancing at the clock. “Crap! Chem test in five minutes.” Hastily he began throwing his books and cards into his bag.

“Just remember, Jake.” I call after him, “If you get stuck, the answer is always 42.”

“Unless Griffin turned into a huge fan of Douglas Adams overnight, I doubt he’ll be amused.” He replied, turning and attempting to tap dance, Fred Astair-style. “So long, so long, and thanks for all the fish!”

Mose smiles and puts a brotherly arm around me. “So, how are you today, Cecillia? It’s good to hear you laugh again.”

I rock my hand back and forth, “Eh..comme ce, comme ca. I have my good days and my bad days.” Looking around, I spot the familiar blue cap in the crowd at the table farthest away from the door and feel that old, familiar feeling, a sensation of simultaneous hot and cold that ran down my breastbone into my stomach, making it knot up. My face flushed hot, then cold, and suddenly felt clammy, my arms breaking into goosebumps and needles pricking the scar running the length of my left arm. It will be a year in May, yet my body still reacted primally with fear.

Mose was smiling- I guess that he’s said something and I hoped he didn’t expect a response. Looking for a quick way out, I looked up at the clock. “Shoot! Trig lecture in five minutes!”

The one good thing about Trig, in general, is that you have to focus because it’s so complicated. If you zone out, contemplating your problems even for a second, more often than not you’ve lost an essential part of some problem and, therefore, are lost for the rest of the lecture. The other, more specific, good thing about Trig is my teacher: a huge German named Krausfielt, who is almost as tall as the door, wears jeans and sandles to class, says everything three times, and ends every other sentence with "Ja?" Heck yes.