The Invisible Fence

Every morning when the sun shines over Brazil the grandness and diversity of the country comes into perspective. The sun illuminates the large white sandy shores of Copacabana beach that is never vacant with its inviting deep blue waters and the numerous and towering buildings of São Paulo. The bright yellow light shines on the lush green landscape of the Amazon rainforest. It reveals Rocinha, a shantytown in the southeastern part of Rio de Janeiro. It exposes its small houses made out of concrete, scrap metal and wood built over the large hills that were once undisturbed landscape. Hundreds of small brown, white, and gray houses, some without electricity or running water, were stacked on top of another but all were fundamentally held in place by the hillside. Long and short narrow pathways, instead of streets, divide areas of the shantytown, leading higher and higher up the mount. Occasionally graffiti can be spotted along the wall of some crumbling house, marking the territory of the local drug dealer. At night Rocinha comes alive with gunshots from the “soldiers,” workers for the leading drug dealers of the neighborhood, fighting with rival gangs or with the police. Not too far from the shantytown, favela, is a school where all the neighborhood kids go.

On this day the 8th grade class was asked to write down where they wanted to be twenty years from now. Some didn’t care about the assignment and didn’t write down anything at all, others smiled as they managed to scribble down the word “soldier” on a piece of paper, all except one. This exception wrote down “doctor.” Unlike the others who saw being a “soldier” in Rocinha as the best life possible, João knew that if he had a choice he would leave Rocinha with his mother and three brothers and never look back.

His single mother, Maíra, worked from two in the morning until seven placing newspapers on the steps of the neighboring middle class city. She walked alone in the dark, carrying large stacks of newspapers that came up to her waist. By the time Maíra made it home her large dark under eye circles had always reformed, she prepared breakfast for her three other children and walked two of them to school. She would come back to her house to cook, clean, take care of her one year old son, and wait until João arrived for her to take a nap. This was the cycle repeated every day, and although she became tired she would never complain, because she did it with good intentions for her children’s future. She would tell João of the stories she would hear from neighbors, of the young children getting involved in with the drug dealers and how quickly they died. It was after this that she would express her luckiness, with a proud smile, for having a son that was hardworking and intelligent enough not become involved with drugs. João would always smile, but never say anything back, because it was always at this moment that a wave of guilt would rush over him. He thought about the job at the store in the neighboring city his mother thought he had. He made it up in order to justify the money he was receiving. When he came back from school, he grabbed his nine mm from under the bed and he felt the wave of guilt rush over him once again as he looked his mother in her eyes and told her he was off to work, she kissed him on the cheek and he was out the door.

João walked up the pathway towards his best friends José’s house, passing all the graffiti stained walls, the tattered clothing drying outside the windows of brown houses that lay on top of others, and the children kicking torn and muddied soccer balls back and forth. He was in front of José door now and as he formed his fist to knock on José’s white door, José opened the door, “Hi João” “Hi Zé, ready?” “Hold on, one second”, said José as he grabbed his PT92 nine mm and tucked it inside his pants. He closed the door and they were off together to the top of the hill. José had been João’s friend ever since they started school together in the 1st grade. They were always inseparable. It was José who really influenced him to join the traffic, but João always had some resistance to it. As they were walking João decided to start a conversation in a pensive tone. “I don’t think I can do this for the rest of my life Zé.” “You don’t see the reasoning behind it that’s why. Think about it. How much money would you make working for minimum wage in that store you tell your mom you work? The monthly salary wouldn’t even be enough to buy yourself the shoes you want and you certainly know that your family would starve now that your mom has a new mouth to feed.” João looked pensively ahead and answered “Yeah,” in a low tone. “Minimum wage just isn’t enough João. When we steal, it’s not to support a drug habit, all the things we’ve done wrong were primarily because we needed food. Don’t forget, we also do a service to the community. Before us, the police would break into everyone’s house and destroy everything, but because we now have weapons they hesitate and use caution. They don’t come here as often as they used to. We try to help the people who are in need. Sometimes they need money to buy natural gas, or some medicine. Remember the other day when Renata’s little girl needed medicine? She would have gotten worse if it wasn’t for that medicine.” João took José’s words into consideration, but they weren’t enough to drive away the images from the night before. “Do you think it was right to burn that informant last night?” asked João. “Of course it was! He pointed to the police who packed the drugs. He deserved to be placed in a stack of tires, have five liters of gasoline poured on him and then set on fire. How many of us do you think the police have tortured, beaten, and murdered. A lot of times the police doesn’t come up here to arrest someone, they come here to kill. This is an unjust society and the police guarantee the status quo. Those who are excluded remain under the control and they better not do anything about it. In South Africa they surround the ghettos with fences to keep them under control. Here, they surround you with an invisible fence.”

They finally made their way to the top of the hill, to a small brown house stained with graffiti on all four sides. In the front of the house stood five other teenagers holding AK-47’s in their hands. Décimo, one of the leading drug dealers in the vast neighborhood, walked out of the small door entrance and gestured his hand, calling João and José to come in. Décimo’s real name was Marcelo, he was given that nickname due to him being the tenth child in his family. He lit up a cigarette, took a puff and blew the smoke into the air “Tonight the German’s (police) are coming,” he said calmly. “We’re going to place some people in the front as look outs.” The look outs normally consisted of eleven and twelve year old inexperienced boys. “Then we’re going to set some people on the top of the buildings, others can hide behind the cars, and others in some elevated crevices. If they come close to us you know what to do, shoot, as usual. You two will be on top of the buildings.” They all knew that wasn’t the most fool proof plan. They knew, as well as everyone else that was going to participate, that at least someone was going to die tonight.

As soon as the sun set over the mountain top, and the children were inside their tiny living spaces, João and José climbed on top of one of the small houses with as much stealth as their bodies could possibly produce. They waited patiently for the police to make their way up on to their pathway, in the meantime José spoke with a big smile, “You know what I forgot to mention from earlier? The women, those one of the perks of having a weapon, the bigger the weapon the more women you have. Décimo has five.” “Yeah I guess that’s nice,” responded João. “ Nah man it’s really nice every time I walk out of my house I feel like a king, I feel like I can take on anyone, the police, the military, B.O.P.E., anyone. I could do this for the rest of my life.” “Well I don’t think I want to. You really believe that everyone here helps out one another? What about the other day when that kid owed Décimo money? That kid disappeared, José, and is now in a bag somewhere, chopped up. They don’t care about anyone.” “Yeah they do,” José responded in a hurt tone. Just then three police officers made their way up to their path, guns moving swiftly through the night air, looking for the slightest move. José began to slowly crawl towards the edge of the roof, placing the gun slightly on the edge. João began to crawl as well. “Wait until they get closer,” João whispered. He knew it was too late to convince him. José had his hand on the trigger. He closed one of his eyes and pushed his index finger down. “Bang!” the bullet went flying and missed the officer, hitting the concrete wall next to him instead. In an instantaneous second all three police officers heads turned in José and João’s direction. The two boys shot up into the air, like rockets. João bolted for the roof of the next building and José was right behind him. Just then, “Bang!” another bullet was fired, but this one did not come from João or José, it came from the officers. The next noise was curdling scream of anguish, João knew instantaneously it was José. He turned his head around and could see José on the roof of the other building on the floor bleeding profoundly from his chest. João began to walk towards him, even though more and more bullets were flying near José’s area. Just then as João was five feet away from him, he could hear José screams. He realized that they weren’t only of anguish, he was screaming “RUN, RUN, RUN!” and the closer João got to him the louder and faster he repeated them “RUN, RUN, RUN!” José tried to numb himself of the pain and lifted himself off the floor. João rushed towards him and grabbed him by his right arm, propping him up, and then letting him go. They ran across what seemed to be an endless amount of roofs, for João, dodging the bullets as they came flying out the policemen’s guns. João could hear José’s wheezing, as he tried to gasp for air. When they could no longer hear the sound of gunshots they jumped down onto a pathway.

As they were both approaching José’s house, João could still hear José’s whizzing mixed in with his own, but then he realized José’s had stopped. He looked behind him and could see José’s body three houses away. He ran towards it, José’s eyes were closed and blood was still gushing out from his chest. “Ze! Ze!” João screamed as he shook his injured body. He could feel José’s slightly cold arm as he grabbed hold of it and could see the color from his face begin to fade. He knew at that moment one of the closest things in the world to him had died. He picked his body up and carried it in his arms to José’s house and placed it on his bed. João told José’s weeping and startled mother what had occurred and then walked back home, in the quiet night, to let his mother nap before she left to work.

The next morning, before going off to school, João made his way up to Décimo’s house. Décimo gestured as he normally did. “I heard your friend died.” Décimo said in calm expression. “Yeah I came here to talk to you about that. I need money for his burial.” “No. José was careless, plus he’s no use to us anymore. I don’t spend money on useless things.” João tightened his fist to the point he could feel his nails about to puncture his skin. He wanted so desperately to shoot Décimo, but he knew he wouldn’t get out alive if he did, instead he grinded his teeth and walked out quietly.

As the school day was over, and as João headed for the school main gate, he could hear his teacher yelling his name. He turned around and she rushed over to him. “João I’ve got great news. You’ve been accepted into the science program at the local university!,” her eyes ecstatic with joy, as if she was the one accepted. “Mrs. Silva, I don’t have the money for that,” João expressed in a passive tone. “Oh! You don’t have to worry about paying for it. It’s a scholarship and they will also give you a stipend,” she said with a wide smile exposing her milky white teeth. João looked at the paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. He had to read it three times in order to believe it. The stipend was enough to quit trafficking and to get his mother and three brothers out of the favela for good. He took the paper and quickly made his way to the bus to get home. “It was finally happening,” João thought as he sat in the bus, “no more blood, no more drugs, and no more violence.” Then a little smile formed across his face as he began to think of his mother reducing her hours and him finally being free of the guilt that had plagued him for the past two years.

He stepped off the bus and as he walked down the narrow pathway he had taken hundreds of times, he could feel every fiber of his being become alive with sheer joy for the first time in the fifteen years of his existence. He couldn’t wait to tell his family the news. His eyes gleamed with hope for a future he believed to be wonderful. It was at this moment that a stray bullet, from a nearby police raid, entered and exited João’s cranium and instantaneously killed him.

FICTION: CATS AREN'T ALLOWED IN THE DORMS by Pearl

It was terrifying. I remember her little nose peering at the opening and then disappearing into the dark slit. I coaxed and coaxed and when I realized she wasn't coming out all of the terrible situations that could happen bounced around in my head. Shit, I thought. She would get stuck under there and then start to protest. Meaning meow, those high pitched meows that plague my sleep and rouse me better than any alarm clock, sometimes accompanied by those sharp sharp teeth biting up and down my arm for no apparent reason since my sleeping arm makes no physical reaction. Perhaps she can sense my mental reactions, as I've heard animals have been said to do. The dull throbbing thoughts of pain intercepting my slumber might stimulate her little brain. She also meows when she needs food, water, is about to throw up (this is a particularly strangled, yet comical, sound) or just wants my attention. But anyway, her meowing is loud, and more detrimentally, very high pitched. One of her mews is certainly not a sound that should be coming out of your typical dorm room at college.

Yes, my college dorm room. I have an "illegal-dorm-kitty," something shocking to some people but surprisingly expected by others. Ah, yes, a "college dorm cat". Just a "college" thing to do, like "binge drinking" and "cramming" and "pranking" and "casual sex" and "condoms breaking" and all that. My roommate and I heard that there were some stray kittens under a house in her home town, Houma, Louisiana. Of course, us being future crazy cat ladies and already feeling deprived of pets in the stagnant dorms, we had to have one. We jumped in her car late one Thursday evening after seeing a show at Tulane, drove the 45 minutes south and got one. It was heart-wrenching to take her away from her mother but the neighbors were going to send her to the pound where she'd probably never leave if we hadn't taken her. It was impulsive but we followed through, getting food, a litter box, and even medication that very same night.

She is a huge hit on campus even though the risks are high. Or they are potentially high. We've heard rumors everything from 200 to one thousand dollar fines, mere requests to "please get rid of it" from a residential assistant to severe disciplinary action or being kicked out of the dorms. We can't ask somebody official what the consequences would be because that might be pretty incriminating. But we figure our RA is chill and the benefits outweigh the elusive risks. We are known as "the girls with the cat" and we have even been introduced to other cat owners, current, or from previous years. I personally think that we are just following good Jesuit ideals by taking this poor creature under our protection and saving her life, to penalize us for this would make ole Iggy turn in his grave.

She is literally and figuratively a handful. She is rapidly growing, however. She is black with white feet and a white belly and the cutest little white mustache, hence her name, Mona (Like the Dali version of the Davinci painting). She is very curious, as kittens are, which led to the terrifying situation that caused my panic weeks ago. Mona loves drawers. If missing, she can most likely be found napping curled up among my underwear and hugging an empty Jaeger bottle. She also knows which drawers have her food in them and will leap in before I even have time to get out a can. But one day, I opened the largest bottom drawer under our counter area. Mona darted over but instead of jumping in actually went under this pulled out drawer. Silly cat, I thought, and tried to reach under to swat her out of the way. But she wasn't there. I peered down and to my horror realized she had actually crawled into the woodwork, in between the sliding drawer and the wooden frame. I couldn't shut the drawer or open it any further, she needed to come out on her own will. My heart was pounding. I had my cheek to the filthy floor, pleading, begging for her to come out. If she got stuck down there we would have to call somebody to get her out. But how, since we technically aren't even allowed to have her? I grabbed the tastiest thing to a kitten I could think of from our fridge, some cheesy spinach and artichoke dip.

"Come on baby, come on, come on Mo Mo!" I begged and bribed and baited and finally she poked out enough of her upper body for me to yank her out of the crack. I hugged her close to me and slammed the drawer shut, and did the same to every other drawer in the room.

"You scared me," I cried. I took her to bed with me and realized just how much I love this damned cat. She isn't just a cuddly toy or something to take cute pictures with. She's mine and she depends on me.

I watched her boxing her arms at anything, at hands and scissors and even thin air, the prospect of boxing something. I looked at her face, that darling little face, looking so scared but curious but bewildered. How do cats know exactly how to make eye contact with you? How do they know how to isolate our eyeballs from the massive blobs our faces must be to them, especially to Mona's relatively recently opened eyes?

This made me realize how deeply I cared about this little creature. It all made sense; why I could now get up before my alarm clock had ever even rung if Mona needed me when previously I couldn't even make it to class. Why I didn't mind getting a handful of cat urine as I plucked her squatting off of my roommates bed and ran her across the room to the sink. Why I could laugh about pee streaming down my leg that wasn't mine at all. Why I continue let her suck on my neck, greedily, with her eyes closed and purring, leaving strange red marks all over my neck that make me look like I have some sort of flesh eating disease. Its because she thinks I'm her mother. It's because she needs me.

I often wonder what she thinks of me. She has seen her mother laugh and cry. She has probably met more people at this school than some students have. Her habitat is a strange one, such a small space packed with so many stimulating objects and small grated windows to peer out of. I wonder if she got confused when she saw her mother's neck get sucked by somebody else than her, and that progress to a whole lot more. I wonder what she thought as she inquisitively sniffed the discarded object resembling a snake, broken and slippery. She is a lucky cat in terms of her access to technology, of which we joke she is addicted to. She loves typing odd combinations of special characters into online conversations and she loves switching the music to Lil Wayne.

The litter box is disgusting and she knocks over her water onto her dry food daily creating a disgusting mushy mix, but my newfound motherhood previously allowed me to clean it up without even thinking, similar to my newfound tolerance for cat urine and being covered with cat hickeys. But this morning as I leaned down to sponge up some food I uncontrollably puked. Everywhere. Mona watched me with large eyes before running over to curiously sniff the sick. I had been really tired but thought it was just my finals, really hungry but thought it was just the weed, nauseous but thought it was just hangovers...along with my MIA period this was all I needed to make a trip to the drug store.

So now I'm sitting on the toilet with this fucking pregnancy test in my hand. I'm intently staring at the indicator and Mona is sitting on the floor staring intently up at me. She lets out a "meow" and I know she wants me to close my legs so she can jump up and join me. As she settles down and starts to purr and knead my bare thighs I focus in on what has already registered in my mind: the blurry red lines signifying pregnancy. I don't know why I'm not freaking out more, I must be in shock. I pick up Mona by the scruff of her neck, stand up, pull up my jeans and stuff the pregnancy test back in the box and into my pocket. I briskly walk to my bed and throw Mona onto her favorite blanket and then lay down and reach for my cellphone.

"Hey, we need to talk. So remember what happened the other week? Yeah. I guess the pill didn't work. Well. I'm pregnant." It almost seems like my voice is coming out of me at its own will. Mona leaps onto my chest staring into my eyes.

"Yeah uhh... I'm not asking you to pay for an abortion. No. Yeah. I think I'm gonna keep it."

You must all be thinking; wait, what? Me, a young, bright girl with a future ahead of me? Me, non-religious, liberal North Easterner, going to have a baby at age 18? Yes, I am pro-choice. But this is the only choice I see possible. Just as I got Mona on a whim and later accepted (and learned to love) the responsibility that came with her, I've decided that I will do the same with this child. Why would I put an end to something that could potentially bring me exponentially more joy than Mona already has? Yes, there will also be exponentially more hardships and risks to come than the now seemingly simple cleaning of a litter box or potential thousand-dollar fines. This will change my entire life but I think maybe, possibly, for the better. I don't regret getting Mona and I don't want to regret this. I'm not sure about anything; my education, how my parents will react, or even the father whose voice I am now temporarily tuning out, entrenched in my own epiphany. Motherhood. I let the phone fall down onto the bed from the crook it was resting in between my cheek and shoulder and stroke Mona as she purrs, sleeping on and kneading my already-growing abdomen.

By Pearl (Sorry to post this late I left my computer at school by accident over break!)

That Hurt

A month prior to this monstrosity, I was a normal, energetic nineteen year old.  However, one rugby game would proceed to put me in one painful, confusing predicament.  I had withheld a passion for rugby for a couple of years before the accident.  I loved everything about it: the pain, the team work, the highlight tackles.  I loved everything about the sport and the life that went along with playing rugby: the people, the drinking, the dirty playing tricks (dump tackles, trips, cleating opposing players’ ribs in the scrum).  We were engaged in a scrimmage game against the University of Louisiana Lafayette; when I blocked an attempted pop kick by the opposing outside center, I immediately leaped over the downed center and attempted to pounce on the unguarded ball. The ball sat just over the try line.  Five points were up in the air and it was up to me to make sure those points went to my team.  I eyes widened as I tried to take this moment into comprehension, my palms clenched as I prepared to make my dash for the oblong ball, I sprang over Number 11 like a gazelle running from a pride of lions.   With my body exposed and my leg extended, one of those hungry lions fell over that Number 11 and rolled into the side of my knee causing and instant popping sound to echo throughout the field.  The game stopped;  I stopped;  I think I remember my heart stopping for an instant.  there was no doubt in my mind that something went horribly wrong.  I could still walk, but I proceeded to hobble off the field and onto the sidelines.  A group of friends and my father welcomed me as I stumbled to a sad patch of brown-green grass roots.  With one look at me, they knew something was different.  They were used to that laughing, red cheeked, bleeding, excited kid to run off that field; this time they saw a confused, depressed, limping soul plopped miserably on the edge of the field that was so special.  My knee felt like jello immediately after the bone cringing noise, but the lack of cartilage and ligaments was amplified with every step I took from the field to the sideline and the sideline to the emergency room.  Exactly a month later I woke up from possibly the most miserable surgery possible. 

Minute 1:

I try to open my eyes but my body does not seem to be in tune with my brain.  I cannot really function.  I cannot open my eyes, but there is no such thing as darkness here.  Where am I?  My body is cold.  This place is frigid.  So stripped of moisture that my lips are chapped; they must have been like this for a while because they are cracking and sore.  I try to lick my lips; but, once again, my tongue does not want to adhere to my brain’s demands.  I cannot move anything; and, to be honest, I still do not know what happened or why I am in this fluorescent, chilly place.  

Minute 2:

I imagine that things should be functioning now.  My eyelids crease open and two half-moon shaped recessed lights blind them back into submission.  I see pink; that pink color that you notice when lights are so bright that they gleam through your closed eyelids.  This is miserable; I want to see where I am but these lights detain my eyes.  I am a prisoner to these damned tungsten charged globes.  I lick my lips, but the lack of saliva does nothing to soothe my drained, flaky flesh.  I hear voices: some familiar, some not.  My strained attempts at life must have gotten their attention.  My eyes remain the prisoners of those blinding lights, so I am still unknowledgeable of whom these voices belong.  A freezing sensation stings the top of my hand; it begins to seize up my veins as it creeps slowly up my forearm and into my bicep and shoulder; I try to fight the devious liquid but my lifeless body is unable to halt its treacherous journey through my circulatory system.

Minute 3:

My body slowly climbs back to life.  The light is still winning the war with my eyes, but my toes are able to wrestle to cheap quilt back and find their way into the cold: big mistake.  Now my only aspiration is warmth.  Everything in this place is cold: the air, my body, that shit that is slithering through my veins.  This is hell; this is the winter version of hell.  I decide to end all of this and simply fall back into unconsciousness.  Of course, that obnoxious pink hue will not retreat from my eyelids; so that plan is foiled.  I hear a strange voice.  I realize that I am somewhere that I should not be.  Suddenly, like a cloud masking the sun, the brightness of the lights that had tortured me recedes.  The battle is won, and I open my eyes to about half width (as far as I can muster).  A lady in a sea-foam green uniform asks me how I am feeling.  What a bitch of a first question: my lips are bleeding from lack of moisture, my eyes have been captive for the past three minutes, you let some cold shit reek havoc upon my veins, and my toes are damned near frostbitten.  How does she think I am feeling?  I do not respond. 

Minute 4:

I am now semi-conscious and curious.  I want to know whats going on.  After this long slumber, I figure it is time to wake up.  I interlock my fingers and thrust my palms outward.  A sever pain radiates through my hand and nearly feints me back into unconsciousness.  I crack my knuckles and simultaneously rip the intravenous needle out of my hand and stab it back into my knuckle.  This pain shocks me back into life.  This sudden jolt of life then enlightens me to the fact that my knee sits propped up on some type of wedge torture device and in a tourniquet of a brace.  The sensations all bundled into one pain-fest is too much to bear.  Aware of my agony, my mother rushes to my bedside.  This does not exactly aid my pain, but her presence does bring a sense of comfort.  Shooting pains radiate up and down my body.  In absolute misery, I do not know how much of this one human can physically withstand.  

Minute 5:

Realizing how much pain I am actually in now, my first words since awakening beg for pain medication.  My leg feels as though it has been cut off and re-sewn onto my body.  I try to move my right leg, but it will not budge off of the bulky blew wedge that holds the encapsulating brace for my leg in the air.  I try to sit up through the agony and the lady in the uniform pushes me back down, gently.  Another woman rushes into the now hectic room wielding a small white cup.  She places a large pill on my tongue and holds a straw between my chapped lips so I can attempt to swallow a sip of apple juice.  With my mouth being as moisture-less as possible from the hours of mouth breathing and anesthesia, it is a battle to move the pill down my throat; I feel every muscle in my esophagus contract one by one as the pill crawls into my stomach.  My eyelids cease to remain open to the horror scene I am witnessing.  I try to sleep and block out the crippling pain.  Between the remaining anesthetic, the pain block in my knee, the medicine given to me through the intravenous, and the pain pill, I hear the voices assuring my parents that I would be sound asleep again soon.   

Even Cancer Patients Have to Pay Bills

My mind went blank. I remember the burning in my eyes from not blinking. My hands were squeezing the bed so tightly, I struggled to loosen my grip. The doctor was in the background talking, but his voice was muffled. The last thing I remember him saying was, “I’m sorry, but the lumps in you throat are malignant. You have cancer and you don’t have much longer. A few weeks at the most.”
I can’t have cancer, I thought, I’m too young. I have too much to finish; I have to graduate college, get the job of my dreams and move out of my mothers’ house. I haven’t done anything significant enough to become famous, well-known, or on someone’s Most Wanted list. I’m going to die a nobody with cancer. My headstone will read “No one of importance is buried here. No need to waste flowers”. I have to fix my car and pay off my student loans. I need to get married and at least have someone that would keep my memories alive. I haven’t traveled or saved the world. I haven’t experimented with drugs or had nearly enough sex. I can’t die right now; I just don’t have the time.
I couldn’t remember leaving the doctor’s office, but somehow I managed to get home. I waited outside the front door; I was horrified of what was about to occur. How do you tell your mother that you’re going first? “Good news Ma. I’m going to die pretty.”
I held the key in my hand, thinking this would have been easier if I would have gotten in a terrible crash on the way home. I could have avoided this completely. I put the key in the lock and twisted to the left. A little push of the large, wooden door, and I was in. I threw my purse on the ground and my mother came running down the hall, “Well? What did he say?”
I walked passed her and made my way to the fridge. My mother came behind me as I leaned over, rummaging through the bottom shelf; “Are you not going to tell me? I think I have the right to know. Damnit Rebecca, answer me!”
“I know it’s in here somewhere. Ahh, bingo.” I reached to the back corner of the fridge to pull out a bottle of Pinot Noir. We had no wine glasses in sight, but I found a hot pink crazy straw that did the trick. I walked into the living room, with my mother in toe still barking questions at me. I sat in the lazy boy and kicked off my boots. She stood there with her hand on her hip and her lips so pursed she might as well not have any. I looked at her and patted the seat next to me.
“Here’s what I know. I have cancer, but the doctor said that he is hopeful. He said I need to see specialists and have lots of tests, surgeries, blood-work, yadda yadda yadda. But he says I’m young and healthy, so there’s no reason to be worried.”
The lines in her forehead diminished slightly, though her eyes started tearing up; “Hey. Hey. None of that, now.” I said as I poked her cheek. I took a sip from my wine bottle and turned on the television. I’ve never been a religious person but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some ridiculous rule about “little white lies”. Thou shalt tell thine mother the truth about having cancer, otherwise thou will…suffer some more. Good job, God.
That night there was no sleep for me; I kept seeing myself in a half-assed pine box and everyone in black throwing dark brown dirt on top of me. A priest stood over me shouting some bible verse and repeating how loved I was and how I will be missed. Everyone looked down into the dirt filled hole, their heads cocked to the side, singing psalms and wiping their snot-filled noses. This funeral was overly depressing for my liking.
I woke up the next morning forty-five minutes late. I jumped out of bed, brushed my teeth and I was off to biology class. I was still in my pajamas with my messy ponytail and no make up on. I have an excuse for not looking presentable, thank you very much. I sat in class half way listening, writing a list of things I need to accomplish. Not a “to do” list, rather a “what’s left to finish” list. I had a million and a half things to do, and I still had to study for my philosophy final. Then I wondered if I would make it through Christmas. Seeing the look on my older brother’s face when he opens his presents from under the tree; it’s borderline precious. The doctor said “a few weeks”. What exactly is “a few”? You figure with all the medical advances and technology there is they could pin point the exact moment you were about to kick it. I’m going to be quite pissed off if I die before I finish this list.
A few hours later, I was on my way to work. I was exhausted and not thrilled about having to go in. As I walked in, it was chaotic; people were crowding the door, waiting to be seated. Others were giving their to-go orders to the frantic-looking hostess and angry because it would take 25 minutes for their sushi to be ready. I stood there, sunglasses on my face and my Starbucks cup in hand. The hostess had tears in her eyes from all the yelling; “Excuse me!” I yelled, “First of all, I need everyone to get out of the doorway. If a fire were to suddenly ignite, we’d all be screwed. Now, if you’re waiting to be seated, stand closer to the right. If you’re doing a to-go order, please be seated and wait patiently. And if you don’t want to be patient, I just cleared the door for you.” Efficient? Yes. Rude? Sure, but I’m dying and they’re whining because of wait times. I handled the situation and I hadn’t even clocked in.
I continued writing my list, when my manager came up to me; “Is everything alright?” she asked. My mind went blank again. How do I answer that question? Honesty is always the best policy, but if I can lie to my mother, why can’t I lie to my manager? But why lie, I thought. If I tell her I’m sick, I could get cut early. I could get a few weeks off. Hell, if I cry, I could get a raise. Funeral’s aren’t cheap, ya know.
“Nothing. I’m just tired. School is killing me,” I said.
“Oh ok. You just look…sick or something.”
“Nope. I’m as healthy as a horse.” Right before you’re about to shoot it.
Sparing everyone’s feelings should get me into heaven, right? Number one, go to church everyday—there’s a whole lot of repenting to do. Number two, be kind to children, it’s mostly their parents fault they’re like that. Number three…
Two weeks pass since I got the news, and I feel like garbage that’s been sitting for too long. My skin is no long olive colored, but it’s a grayish white and I just cough and cough and cough. I’m almost sure you could smell the death on me; it has a faint hint of fertilizer mixed in with lavender body spray. My mother seemed to be going through the stages of grief for me. I think part of her knew I lied to her that day; she saw me getting worse and she knew my time was limited. She knew I was dying and no lie or joke could get me out of this one. A mother always knows.
“I found this in your pants pocket,” my mother said, holding up my list. How could I let her find out that way? She was so angry, so hurt, she couldn’t verbalize anything. She just stood there and shock. My mother left the room and went to sit in the living room. I gave her a moment, then I followed her in there; “Are you mad because I’m dying or are you mad because I didn’t tell you?”
“Both. You’re my child! I’m supposed to go first, not the other way around! This isn’t right, this isn’t fair. I mean, what am I supposed to do without you? What are you’re siblings supposed to do without you? Did you tell them anything? How dare you lie to me like that! Did you want me to find you dead in your bed one day? I swear, you are so selfish.”
I let her rant for a bit longer, then I walked to her and curled up in her lap; “You can’t change the inevitable, mom.” We sat there for a bit, occasionally crying and making small talk. I noticed the list in her hand and I took it from her. I’m not sure how much longer I had and I hadn’t even started on the damn thing. I put all this pressure on myself to finish it and most of it I don’t want to do. What kind of a life is that then if I live the rest of my life doing what I think I should do instead of what I want to do? I refuse to, I won’t. I might have cancer, but I won’t let it scare me. No way some list or some malignant lumps would dictate the rest of my days.
“Screw the lump, and the list. Let’s go get ice cream.”

Pick Up

Pick Up
Henry sat in the theater. His clothes were clean. He did not stink. He was alone. There was a large drink and popcorn with Mike’s and Ike’s candy. The drink was nearly gone. The popcorn was half eaten and rubbery. The Ike’s were gone. It was noon.
The screen displayed Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in Dolby Surround Sound. Sitting in a seat too large for him and a row with no one else on it he looked to his left and right for another life. Rows ahead of him some other film patrons sat, and rows behind him couples appearing to be in their 40’s held hands with their lips in the mold of a crescent. He stared back at the screen. Indiana Jones punched an evil goon. Henry’s face turned into a similar manner of those in attendance.
The film ended. He left his drink and Mike’s. He walked up the aisles towards the exit munching and munching with great effort to finish the buttered and peppered popcorn. He’s black and 48. With a Yankee’s cap on and not in New York.

***
“I don’t give a fuck what you say about him but he would fucking kill his fucking ass in a second” said Jude.
“How da heck can you say dat? You ain’t seen what he done huh? Cuz if you seen what I seen this would be a whole fucking different convo man” said Rake.
“Look, are gonna tip are we just gonna talk about how great MacGuyver be?” said Henry.
“What you even saying? Man you ain’t listen to a goddam word we said. Colombo would beat the shits out of both of those two Miami Vice fags any day. You seen that shit he did to his wife. He killed the bitch with a shotgun, wrote it on his things to do list and said: ‘I couldn’t have killed her. I planned on doing it but this shit right here wasn’t me.’ And that’s real life, jus think of what Colombo was doing behind the scene” said Rake.
“You got it wrong” said Jude.
“Nah, listen here nigga, Colombo was the damn man. I could walk in on him fucking my wife and I would close the door. I would just look at my wife and say: ‘Excuse me. Good Judgment call. And you two enjoy the night.’ Anybody else smashing my wife, I’d go Colombo on their ass, but Colombo, I’d let him slide. Him, and maybe Boris Kodjo, I can’t lie, I’d be hurt it’s not Colombo, but I’d understand. Everybody got needs,” said Rake.
“Negro was you born stupid or you just happen to be that way? Robert Blake was the one that killed his wife. And you probably got the story wrong. I wouldn’t let Colombo get in my bed for anything” said Jude.
“But what if Colombo came to your house and was like…”
“Why would he come to my house?”
“It’s hypothetical.”
“Who taught you that word? You can’t read. Colombo couldn’t read either. He just scribbled into his note pad and made people think he could. He was an illiterate white man.”
“White people can read. All of them. Each of them is born with at least a community college degree in English and dictionary in their brain. Using words we never heard before. They born talkers. How else you think they got us on them ships with four of um, two shotguns, and a whip?”
“Good planning and know-how?”
“Shut yo ass up.”
“So we tipping?” said Henry.
“Hah” said Rake.
“We don’t tip,” said Jude.
“We can” said Henry.
“Bullshit, why do you want to tip anyway?”
“Screw it. I’m paying the bill. Give me something for a tip.” Rake took $3 out of his wallet and gave it to Henry. Jude pulled a five dollar bill. Henry paid and they left.
As they walk out he said: “Vice was better.”

***

Jude was the driver. Rake was to the right of the garbage truck. Henry on the left. It was Monday and they picked trash on the left side of Moiré. Next to one of the tall burgundy and brick houses there was a half open and smeared diaper on the trash can. It was a golden color. No flies swarming. Maggots visible. Henry pulled the can slow. As he placed the trash inside the dump truck he slid on rocks putting the trashcan back. The trash was out of the can but the contents of the diaper had smeared across his chest. He smelled like baby shit. He had golden baby shit on his chest like an embarrassing battle badge.
“Hah” said Rake.
“It’s not funny. I ain’t laughing,” said Henry.
“Sorry. Hah. And. Hah.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Hah.”
“What ya’ll laughing at?” Screamed Jude from the driver’s seat.
“Hah. He got baby mess on him” said Rake.
“Well, you riding in the back nigga” said Jude and Henry did.

***

“Do you want to hear about Red Riding Hood and the Huntsman this time?” Henry said.
“I’m ok Daddy. I don’t feel like hearing a story tonight. Just stay ‘till I sleep” said Ellie, his daughter. Hayden, or Hay-Hay, was already sleeping in the bed to the left of Ellie’s. They shared the same room.
Henry smiled. His wife looked at him and held his hand tight. The air condition in the window blew loud but soothing at an automated setting of 68 degrees. His red hooded jacket on the ground below it. The heater in the corner was unplugged and atop a box of dress shoes. His wife kissed him on the cheek and they went to their bedroom to make love and sleep.

***

They picked from the right side of Moiré. Jude, in his short sleeve work shirt. Clean. He drove and ate bags of Lay’s potato chips. He stopped the truck. Rake and Henry took the trashcans from in front the 4835 Moiré house and something dropped out of Henry’s can. It was ribs. Large. Perfectly clean ribs.
“Who be licking bones round here?” said Henry to Rake.
“It’s summer time man, probably some rich white people that barbecued” said Rake in response with his head down and brown going down the left of his long sleeve shirt.
“Whatever dog shit man. Just saying it’s extra clean” said Henry.
Jude pulls the truck up to the next house. Henry picked up the trashcans and something falls from the trash. It’s a rabbit with its head chopped off and bite marks on its feet.
“Eh, Rake, come see this shit man,” said Henry.
“I don’t want to. I just want to get home and whatever it is it’s probably something someone ate or just something random” said Rake.
“Aight. Fine.”
The truck is again pulled up by Jude. They grabbed the trashcans. Something fell out. A human hand. Left. No blood dripped. It was cold. Gray. Dry.
The day was Good Friday. Jesus’ blood poured out of his stomach by a soldier. Blood poured from his head like tears. Henry threw the hand in the trashcan. His hands shook.

***

Tuesday. The right side of Moiré. Henry’s hands were still shaking. Jude ate eight bags of chips. Jude kept his head down. His shirt was washed but the stain still showed. Henry’s uniform had a hint of gold on it.
Jude crept the truck to where the ribs were found.
“You guys do your thing,” said Jude, not turning his head around.
Henry and Rake got out. They went to the first house on the street. Rake found a toe. He put it in the trashcan then into the back of the truck then placed the can back in front of the house he got it. It was a person’s toe.
Henry found a hand. Right. He picked it up. His hands shaking, it dropped. He stared at it.
He picked it up, hands shaking, face sweating, neck hard as a mountain made by the Lord and he threw it into the back of the trash truck.
The next house had legs and feet.

***

“How don’t they go to jail,” said Henry.
“I don’t want you to go back there,” said his wife.
“I held a hand in my hand.”
“I know baby.”
“Did you f-ing here me? I had a death in my hand! I held the remains of some dead person’s hand. I basically shook a dead person’s hand and you’re telling me to calm down.”
“Babe,” she said and rubbed his back.
“Don’t touch me. The last thing I need is someone touching me.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
“Babe.”
“You know the craziest part about it…the last house on the street, and I mean the last, big house, two, three stories, probably a dog and dental insurance, you know rich people. They didn’t have anything in front the house. Everybody on that street had something in front of it. Not them.”

***

They rode on Moiré again. Quiet. Shaking. Eating. They did all. The truck stopped. Henry got out. He grabbed a trashcan. A forearm. No blood dripped. Rake kept his head down. He finally got out.
Next house. Rake found the head of a turkey. Its eyes were open. Mouth too. Henry, a torso. Large breasts. The nipples were chopped off. Henry vomited. His eyes watered. The next house had a buttocks and thighs. He picked them up and dropped them. He found them in the street. Not the trashcan. The next houses were similar. All remains were outside the houses. Not even in their trashcans. The house at the end was clean. They didn’t even have trash.
“Man, Colombo, Miami Vice, we need those guys right now,” said Jude as they got into the truck with a laugh.
“You notice there aren’t any cops around here,” said Rake.
“Yeah,” said Henry.
"Or ever," said Rake.
"Yeah, so?" said Henry.
“Nobody can stop whoever is doing this shit. And we sure damn can’t be the ones to,” said Rake.
Henry read the children the story of Moses from the family Bible with great thunder that night. He skipped over the death of the first born and body of water filled with blood.

***

Moiré. Morning. Sun not even out. Human bodies were on the fronts of houses. Hands. Dead babies. Animals. Just in the street or homes. Clear view. Dead bodies and remains in front of houses with no cops. Trashcans were still out. They picked them up and put the trash in the back of the truck. Bodies too.
Rake was putting one of the cans into the back of the truck. His leg was being pulled.
“What the fuck?” said Rake. Vicious teeth sank into his thigh and ripped it off. With his leg off sucking went into the remains of his thigh.
“I got you man, I’m coming,” said Henry.
Something was pulling on his back. A bite went on the top of his head and sunk into the skin and pulled off down to his shoulders. His eyes rolled and blood gargled out of his mouth as if he were drowning. Punctures was made into his neck and wrapped towards the front of his body pulling skin with blood drenching down to his nipples.
“Oh, Lord help,” Rake said with only the skin of his face remaining on his head. Something clawed deep into his face and took the remaining skin. Rake’s screams would drive a city deaf. Henry pulled onto his body and tried to drag him towards the truck. Jude looked through the rear view without moving, hands stiff on the wheel. A clenching happened again, taking his right arm. Rake’s screaming stopped. The blood oozed and dripped.He began to shake with blood splattering in numerous directions. Dead. Henry picked up his remains and ran into the truck. An unmoving head without skin. A pale black neck, eyes looking into those of God’s.
The light was beginning to rise. Jude accelerated. Another automobile hit theirs. The trash truck swerved. He drove faster. Wiped the sweat off his head. The truck was hit again and swerved into a mailbox, running it over. The truck went four feet in the air and landed at a right angle, mail going in numerous directions, the latch of the truck opening and bodies falling onto the street. On top of cars and sliding with the jerk of the truck into stores and other buildings. Jude sped again and did not cease. Whatever was behind them no longer followed. The sun was risen. Henry told his kids a story about Superman fighting against kryptonite then of Jesus returning to apostles with holes in his palms.

***

The truck only had two people. Jude. Henry. They pulled down to Moiré. There were at least 40 bodies in the street. And a trashcan in front of every house. The one at the end had nothing in front of it. They drove down the street, over bodies. The truck went up and down as they did so. The sound of weak bone was heard as they did so. No blood let out of any of the bodies. They pulled up to the empty house. They walked to it. Henry knocked. No response. The door opened. They walked back to the truck slowly.

***

Henry listened outside of his children’s bedroom as his wife scared them with a tale of Dracula. He opened the door. They were shaking under the sheets. He walked towards his room grabbed his red hoodie and placed it over his shoulder. He brought his bat with him. Wooden. He practiced swinging it. Then went to sleep with the bat in his hands.

***

He went to work. Same street. Over the bodies. Cracked the bones and ribcages. Henry got out, looked at the rear view mirror of the truck, missing himself, and went into the house with the bat.

Hyde and Seek

I was 14 years old or something like it on an airplane to Bath Maine. A place I never knew existed; however it made me think of The North Pole minus jolly old Saint Nick. I was flying away from everything I had ever known. Falling from 32,000 feet would have felt like nothing compared to the butterflies in my stomach. If only I had a Red Bull to go with them, I probably could have flown myself to Maine from Chicago. I was surprised my bouncing knee didn’t simulate such turbulence that the captain turned on the fasten seat belt sign. Britney Spears was blaring in my headphones, at an insatiable volume. Before I realized there was a world of sound outside the bubble of pop culture, Britney Spears was my angry music of chose. Before I discovered Atreyu, Marylin Manson or anyone else who markets toward fueling teenage angst. Before Simon and Garfunkle made me cry, and before Nirvana saw me through times I thought I wanted to die. Why I turned to a person who blew his head off is today beyond me. Anyway, I wanted to drown out the world and beat on something, so I artistically butchered the poor lady in to seat to my right. Taking it upon myself to draw this particularly plump lady drooling as she slept. Her head cocked upward like a baby bird reaching for food from its mother. She was even trying to feed in her sleep. That was how I drew her, as a turkey reaching for a worm, restricted by a tight seatbelt and fat rolls stuck between our conjunctional armrest. My mom looked over at me discernibly saying something accompanied by a glare of disappointment and a shaking head. so of course I turned my music up, and stared out the window. Rewind.

Play. We were in the Land Rover approximately 300 miles and 100 cornfields away from our house headed to Canada. Cursing with haste and tenacity, like a grey hound chasing a simulated rabbit. My dad had to get there in record time, no matter the destination. Key phrases in our car while dad was drove consisted of “WATCH IT JACK! This was often spewed while merging. “JESUS H. CHRIST,” was popular around break-happy drivers. “FUCK, I mean f-you-pal,” was directed towards anyone who cut him off or passed him. “Can’t I just kill him a little bit?” was complemented with a heartfelt smile and a chuckle, as if to say he was sorry for swearing in front of everyone in the car. Once upon a time, that was my personal favorite. He always saved that one for last in hopes that it would make me laugh like it used to. Really any outward deprecation was deemed necessary and justifiable when my dad was in the drivers seat. The unaware recipient no longer had an identity outside the box of his car. Between the missile cynicisms of my father’s vendetta with anyone else on the road, the joyous audible story of Sea Biscuit circumvented my eardrums. I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Instead I put my headphones on, listened to R Kelley’s remix to ignition, and stared out the window. Fast Forward.

Play. I was on cup of coffee number three when I snapped out of my dream world up in the clouds. Coffee and nerves is never a good cocktail. However coffee, nerves, and a floatation device for a seat while flying into the next chapter of my life may as well have been a cup of drain-O spiked with Four Loco. I wanted to puke, my life was turbulently tumbling around in my head, and my tears started to well. Biting the insides of my cheeks I hoped to stop crying before my mom noticed. Of course I failed. She began her intrepid attempt to console me; I pretend not to notice her. My foot bounced with jazzercise vigilance. She could see I was scared. She also knew I was hyped up on caffeine, and would shortly be in need a paper bag to avoid a panic attack; so she gave me a Benadryl. I was petrified half way through that flight. Not of falling, or combining Benadryl coffee and the heart attack I would have sworn I was having. I was transitioning from one world to the next on a one-way ticket to Bath Maine, feeling like Dorothy inside a tornado. When I landed, I may as well have been in Oz. The fasten seat belt’s sign deactivated, and everyone shot up like fizzy lifting drinks. However I did nothing of the sort; I wanted to people watch. Chaos flowed into the isle while people frantically grab their things. It was a race to wait in line. Strange concept, but it happens every time a plane lands; as if gathering your things faster than the person in front of you got off the plane sooner. Of course my dad is that one person who made it to the front of the plane. Waving his arms, motioning to follow in his footsteps. Like it was acceptable to weasel through the crowds towards him, because he was there waiting. He is the man who is always in a race. I sneered while mildly rolling my eyes, continuing to wait before standing. It was my turn next. I sloppily grab my immaterial Louis Vuitton carry on and move into the isle. I make sure to piss him off by dilly-dallying. I shuffled my feet off the plane and up the ramp. I did not make eye contact, and turned my headphones up to full volume; just incase anyone tried to talk to me. I looked up right in time to make note of the welcome sign. It was in bubbly dark blue Helvetica lettering with an exclamation point saying, “WELCOME TO MAINE!” What a tragic happenstance. It foreshadowed the future, giving me a glimpse of what I was in for. The two stenciled tourist attractions chosen to coincide with the welcome sign were ultimately unattractive. A moose and a lobster, oh what fun! I thought to myself, are you serious? This is where I am going to spend the next four years of my life? Honestly with the moose and the lobster? Where the deer and the antelope play? Those were the two things they chose to welcome people with? I guess that was a better what I would have picked, which would have been snowflakes, and a North Face jacket. The three-layered kind that you zip yourself into. Imagine the jackets you see in Nation Geographic, the kind worn while climbing Mt. Everest. The feeling of their gaze brought me back from my intrinsically sinister tangent. I transition my gawk separate yet equally between both parents gaze, in dismayed disbelief. Next stop boarding school. I started to understand where I was going. Rewind.

Play. 7 hours and three gas stations later, two of which gave me the sneaking suspicion they were once occupied by the Manson family or people like them; where the film, Deliverance’s banjo should have been playing in the background and I was about to boil over. Bottles and bottles of well-aged emotion were about to steam roll out of my mouth in one sentence. “I WANT TO GO TO BOARDING SCHOOL!” Pause.

Side-note -- I am from Glencoe Illinois. Best described as a Norman Rockwell painting on crack. Glencoe is the Jewish town in the North Shore of Chicago. The movie Mean Girls is based around the high school I would have attended. A breeding ground for ostentatious sheltered capitalists sealed in a bubble of consumerism. Mrs. cellophane should have been my name for all people living around me saw was my outfit. I was doomed popular on the first day of school in 6^th grade. Suddenly I was no longer the tomboy ballerina looking girl, who spent a lot of time at the horse barn. I was a different person. I had been initiated with a new identity meant to consume me. I was only allowed to keep my name from who I was, perhaps because we weren’t fleeing the country. Everything was suddenly a democratic tyranny, ruled weekly by the top three of the eight coolest girls. Translated this meant the three girls who ruthlessly manipulated their ways to the top. In my opinion the movie Cruel Intentions, post puberty would be the best way to depict our deviant behaviors. Everything was decreed from what we wore on certain days, to what we did after school. “We are wearing pink on Thursday and practicing our dance routine for the Bat Mitzvah party this weekend.” Was a popularly depressing demand, sugarcoated with a smile. I found myself discovering brand names like Juicy Couture, Seven Jeans, Church Girl, and Michael Star. I had highlights in my hair and perfectly waxed eyebrows. Suddenly I was wearing makeup and reading how to tips from Bobbie Brown’s book. I owned three of the most expensive hair strengtheners on the market, went to Starbucks every morning, and was in some of the most intensive classes I have taken to this day. Oh to be in seventh grade. Sometimes I think I have not learned much since I left that school, where I was amongst insipid cookie cutter spawn of desperate housewives and the inventors of things like the Hoover vacuum. These women were and are the real desperate housewives of America; women who would never condone television to broadcast their lives. Women who were legitimately screwing their fitness instructors, driving drunk and coincidentally crashing into Starbucks (their Mecca of gossip), running away with the mail man for a week, so on and so forth. That was my hometown. Imagine their degenerated offspring. I wanted to die. So my eighth grade year I completely stopped talking to anyone. I went from being amongst the top three coolest girls in school, to being invisible. I hated those top eight girls, the people who were supposed to be my friends. I hated being cruel to people who did not deserve to cry themselves to sleep at night. I hated the backstabbing, and the weekly alliances. I was over it. I wanted to leave anyway I could. -- End of side note.

Play. Prior to my cacophonous announcement, my mother had been ranting about her latest trend to make a difference. The Elephants Living in Africa were suffering and had no voice of their own. Their habitats were being destroyed by Starbucks. So my mother, like Colonel Mustard, took her last stand. “I can not believe it! Starbucks, of all places is hurting the elephants! The poor helpless elephants! I am never going to drink Starbucks again. She is a caffeine junkie by the way, with a persnickety pallet in preference of Starbucks, so the odds were against her, and we all knew it. My money was on three days. I could not handle being in that box anymore. I thought to myself, yes mom the elephants are most important. Forget about the ecosystems and the starving Africans who probably lost their jobs because Starbucks has to cover its ass. Worry about the elephants? Stop the world I want to get off! That was the last thought I had before my years worth of silence was broken. I screech, “I WANT TO GO TO BOARDING SCHOOL!” My parents were so stupefied that my dad stopped the car on the shoulder of the road. “What did you say?” As if he were questioning my reality, like I were a ghost that just popped out to say boo. I took a deep breath and repeat myself mocking the question by speaking ever so slowly. “I. Want. To. Go. To. Boarding school.” I hate living here! I want to go to a school where I can be in an academically challenging environment that doesn’t take a toll on my soul! I am literally dying here! Get me out!” My dad sat like a tombstone for 5 seconds before pulling out his phone and dialing a number. My mom couldn’t take her eyes off of me. She started to cry, and said something like, thank God you finally want help.” I wish I had translated that appropriately then. I had no idea that my dad was on the phone with a friend whose daughter was a drug addict who overdosed at the age of 14 survived and really did need intensive therapy. She was in need of a safe environment. With headphones still blaring, all I mustered from the conversation was: “Brittney, boarding school, Hyde, yes she needs help, I don’t care the cost, say the name again Hyde? Thanks I’ll call you back.” My dad hung up the phone and was quickly on the line with the headmaster of Hyde school. Somehow we got an interview even though the deadline application was a month prior, and the school was starting a week from that day. I should have known then. Fast forward.

Play. We grab our bags from the carousel. I dragged my bag hiding behind my Valentino shades masking my mascara-tainted tears, as we approached Hertz rental car. My dad yelled at the innocent bystander behind the counter, and suddenly keys appeared like magic. Bibbidi- bobbidi-boo, we were off in our pumpkin colored Ford Focus, I knew better than to comment on the irony, or to think it a carriage. No clock had to strike twelve for me to understand that the end of this ride lead to no happy ending. My life could never have been that simple. One vanilla latte from Starbucks and a giggle to how quickly I lost that bet later and Colonel Mustard’s stand dwindled with every sip. We were getting closer; I could feel it in my bones. We passed through New Port Maine, on a highway with a skyline infiltrated by huge billboards advertising commercial chains. There were no small stores to be seen. I ignorantly thought to myself, how tragically middle class. Rewind.

Play. No one spoke much for the remainder of the car ride to good old Canada. I was daydreaming of plaid skirts, hot guys, and fresh start to a prosperous future. I was excited again. I even smiled. Although no one else seemed happy I could breathe again for the first time in too long. The rest of the car ride went quickly, probably because I was in lala land. We crossed the Canadian boarder and the next thing I knew, we found ourselves somewhere near Toronto getting out of our now buggy, carcass ridden gut mobile, and were stepping into the wilderness. Children were literally immerging from the trees, where their cabins were apparently hiding. I saw my brother he looked sun burnt and was wearing his favorite brown shirt of a sloth with glasses saying, “this is a face only my mother could love.” He looked happy though, he had a fishing pole in his hand, worms were crawling out of his pocket, and the freckles on his plump round face were turning sienna due to his seasonal sunburn. It made his blue eyes pop out, and his teeth look whiter as he smiled and ran to give my mom a juicy hug. My parents told him my news. He barely said hello to me, let alone gave a damn that I was leaving the house. Fast forward.

Play. It was my last night as a full resident in my home. My things were packed in three duffels the size of body bags, which were definitely over the 65-pound limit. The room I thought I hated suddenly seemed too empty. I was getting everything I wanted, but did I want it? Where was I going? I wanted to go to art school in California, or college prep school at Exeter. What was Hyde? What did character building mean? Suddenly nothing made sense. I was irked by something that felt like my parents cloaked me in a security blanket of their trickery. Everything started to unveil. A scream escaped my lungs without permission. Instantaneously my dad came running and roaring. What is wrong? Are you ok? Are you hurt? He came to an abrupt halt in my doorway and stared. I was huddled in a ball on what was left of my bed holding Moe, my cat, while sobbing. Moe was the only things I loved in the world aside from my stuffed bunny Peaches. I don’t want to leave Moe! I irrationally exclaimed. My dad looked at me softly and the wrinkles on his forehead disappeared like someone snuck up behind him with a Botox injection. He exhaled slowly holding back the tears welling up behind his pale green eyes, which were hiding behind huge spectacles; the kind which kids wear on Halloween pretending to be old. He walked over to my bed slowly, trying to stop his bottom lip from quivering. “Britt honey, you have to get better. I am not doing this because I don’t love you, I am doing this because I want to see your soul shine again. I want to see your soul smile again. I want you to steal the show again like you used to. You were once so gentle and caring. Do you remember? You used to bring home little animals and nurse them back to health with mom. I don’t know what happened to you monkey. You were my little mouse and now you act like a rat. You don’t talk to anyone, you come home and go to sleep, or stay up late drawing, and writing. You wake up angry and resentful. You resent us. Please don’t think we are giving you away. We are not giving you away, we love you, but you need help right now; and we have ran out of options.” I continued to cry, clinging to Moe making his fur look oily from all my tears. Between sobs I said, “Why can’t I pick my school? Why do I have no say in any part of my life? This is my life; you ask me why I am not happy, well maybe it is because I am treated like a robot! When I asked you why you picked this school you yelled at me! Telling me not to tell you what to do, as if that was what I was even doing. Excuse me for asking a question about my life! I DON’T WANT TO GO TO HYDE SCHOOL! I WANT TO PICK ANOTHER ONE!” I WANT A SAY IN MY LIFE!” the yelling continued. Fast forward.

Play. We reach a tiny little town full of, tiny little restaurants and tiny mom and pop stores. There was one Holiday Inn, a McDonald’s, a CVS, a McDougal’s gas station, and a huge shipyard called Bath Iron Works. I started crying again, listening to Britney spears, not a I’m not a girl. My dad slows down. Apparently we were there, and driving through a inhospitable looking gate, which was always referenced, as “never closing,” as if they need a gate to keep kids locked in there. In front of me was a huge white estate built in the late 1800’s. It looked like the owner abandoned it in the twenties, and Hyde just moved in making little to no change to anything including the interior. That was incorrect though. Somewhere between the misfortunes of the original owner and Hyde’s take over, the place was a children’s polio hospital. Talk about haunted. I would later come to learn the first indoor pool installed in Maine existed in the basement. Which of course came along with the ghost story of the original owner’s mistress, who allegedly drowned her illegitimate new born, and then hung herself in the upstairs bathroom. Which by the way, still existed pole and all. Nothing had been changed, or renovated in that place. It was a mansion. In fact that is what everyone called it, The Mansion. I looked around at my new home through our looking glass windshield. I was confused. There were some kids dressed in Khaki pants and button down shirts walking about; but then there were the others. The kids wearing sweatpants and tee shirts solemnly carrying rakes over their shoulders. Some of them were raking grass and piling rocks. I remember seeing three sweatpants wearers in the distance with two superiors in Khaki pushing their pile of rocks over. Dorothy, we definitely are not in Kansas anymore. We park in what surely was side door of bountiful stories. I imagined valet parking was offered to the aristocrats of the early nineteenth century attending the balls, which must have been held there. I pictured extravagant events from the Great Gatsby, and lavishly dressed elitists promenading through the door, where the finest champagne’s awaited them. I later discovered that my suspicions of past extravaganzas, decadent balls and debutants were in fact true. One of our classrooms was even called The Ballroom, and of course still looked like one. We walked through my dream into the doorway, where there was no champagne on ice, and everyone looked miserably conformed. To what I was not sure yet, but I knew there was potential to find out. A tall blond girl with a volleyball physique, and a hinged smile greeted us at the door. She introduced herself as our tour guide, and hastily ushered us between the debutant style staircases beneath the enormous crystal chandelier, and through a dark walnut stained door. In what must once have been the master of the estates office; judging by the creepy portrait of the royally dressed man whose eyes followed you while you walked, standing proudly next to the fireplace. The exact fireplace I had been asked to, “please have a seat,” next to. Eerie. I wanted to run, but instead we waited. Then entered Mrs. Herd, the headmaster’s wife. She was pale and dehydrated looking. Her skin looked like crinkled paper and was in dire need of lotion. Her hair was dark and frizzy; her eyes matched the walnut door. She was wearing black, and had dark pink lipstick smeared on her Chiclet sized coffee stained teeth. She peered over her specs into my soul, and proceeded to smile as though she deciphered how to lock me in the highest room of the tallest tower. She slowly made her way to the seat in front of me, walking carefully like a lioness circling its prey about to pounce; and then she sat. My parents caught none of her creepy vibes, or maybe they didn’t want to admit they did. She never broke eye contact until she spoke. It was like a switch had been flipped in her brain, and autopilot kicked into high gear. She became a valley girl trapped in black drab. “Hi I’m so pleased to meet all of you welcome to Hyde! I looked over your file and you are a very smart girl who I’m sure would be a great addition to our community. Our community I thought to myself? Suddenly that Manson family gas station sounded like a more comforting of an idea. She was sly as a fox. She paused and sat in silence plotting. I nervously giggled, my Mean Girls training was not up to par with hers. She then said, “ I am only going to ask you one question Brittney. Why are you here?” Oh shit, I thought to myself, I’m stuck. I tried to diverge the topic, but my mother so lovingly divulged, “She is very depressed. We love her so much and we just want her to get better.” I wanted to hit her over the head with one of the rakes from outside. She had essentially just signed my papers for me, and did not stop there. Going and on about my issues, like she was my therapist. I was livid. Thanks for throwing me to the wolves mom, Et too Brute? The next thing I knew I really was signing papers. I tried reading them, but my dad scowled at me so I put pen to paper and signed. Funny he had always taught me to read over everything before signing. That was it. I was essentially emancipated from my parents, and thrown into a community. I was 14 or something like it wondering where the rakes came into play. Pause.

Four Women and a Rainbow

Four Women and a Rainbow
By: Angelique Dyer
“…and this is for colored girls who have considered suicide/but are moving to the ends of their own rainbows.”—Ntozake Shange

Woman in Red
Brandi is obsessed with red lipstick, the kind that stains the collars of cheating boyfriends and the rim of wine glasses. Red lipstick leaves a trace only Brandi could create. Her obsession with red lipstick started with a Lifetime movie about a woman who wore red lipstick to her mastectomy-because only confident women wear red lipstick. Brandi is still trying to find her perfect shade. Her large lips need the right shade to make sure they didn’t look clownish, because then I would have to put an end to this obsession. She is a Delta, so red flowed in her heart and in her blood. Every morning, before leaving for class or work, she throws her red sorority bag on her shoulder and prances out the door, a regular “Judy Attitudie” ready to prance on anyone who gets in the way of her and her red lipstick.
I first met Brandi when we were freshman in high school and we kept looking at each other strangely.
“I know you from somewhere,” Brandi said to me as I struggled to open my locker on the first day.
“You do look familiar,” I replied and this started a seven-year game of “Guess Where We Met.” It wasn’t until this past summer that we remembered we went to the same summer camp.
Brandi and I have this friendship that is marked with laughter—if I’m not making her laugh with my impersonations of a transvestite, she’s making my abs burn in pain from laughing at her random jokes about just about anything. This friendship is also marked with tears because no matter what I say or what facial expressions I make, she always knows when I’m on the brink of tears. All she has to say is, “You’re lying” and the floodgates open. She’s that friend who is ready with a bottle of wine to hear you whine, but is also ready to come up with a plan to make it all better.

Woman in Purple
Whitney cut all of her hair off April of 2010 and we couldn’t believe it. She was the only one of us with that “good hair” cascading down her back. Then she does the big chop and lets her curls dance freely on her head. She altered her crowning glory her way and we had no choice but to understand. I’m sure if she could, she would die her head purple to match her purple sweaters, sundresses and violets she wears when she slides into her professional wear to handle her business. She’s a pre-med student, and business to her, never ends. She wears crowns of different shapes and sizes—sorority president, medical school applicant, student, volunteer, human dictionary, comedian, best friend, sister, daughter, woman. Sometimes, she wears too many crowns for her head to hold. Yet, the pain and weariness never shows on her yellow face-just compassion and laughter filling the insides of her hazel eyes.
“Girl, you know, we’re really like sisters. We share like sisters,” Whitney said to me one day as I let her take a sip of my daiquiri. After fourteen years of baby fat, puberty, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, karaoke, deaths, births, failures and triumphs, Whitney is still saving my life. It all started at the K&B drugstore in New Orleans East and my mom and I were shopping for school supplies. I was rattling off to her all the new kids at school and how my teacher looked like the skinny aunt from “James and the Giant Peach.” On the same aisle, Whitney and her mom were also shopping for school supplies and we caught each other’s eye. Something about Whitney told me that I needed on my side to combat the bullies that seemed to make up the cleverest short jokes. I think it was the fact that she was taller than me. It had to be God that pushed me towards her and made me whisper, “Hey, you’re in my class. Wanna be my friend?” I don’t remember questioning if this statement was a good thing to do or not, and I don’t remember even having fear about what her answer could be. “Sure!” Her green eyes lit up with her answer and so did my heart.
They told us that being college roommates was friendship suicide but once again, we overcome common expectations and are better friends because of it. I’ve changed since those days in elementary school—larger bra sizes, bigger dreams, less patience—but Whitney has stayed completely the same. She still sings Negro spirituals in the shower, names all the bones, organs, muscles and cells in the human body, and comes to me to apply her eye shadow because she is just “not as girly as Angie.”

Woman in Orange
Tanya is a force to be reckoned with. We bought her a dress form mannequin for her 20th birthday and her surprised scream echoed through New Orleans, creating pot holes in streets that were once untouched. Tanya designed clothes, jewelry, brooches, scarves, and hats—anything that can be worn. Shopping with her is a battle due to her repeating chorus of “Girl, don’t buy that. I can make that.” She can make a dollar out of 15 cents, a cocktail out of brown, white and pink liquor, and a smile from even the most comatose mouths. It’s as if she swallowed the sun and through her skin and soul, orange seeps out slowly with every word from her mouth. She’s her own little sun in our world, causing heat to surround and blind us with her hodgepodge of colorful outfits and large curly hair. She sings the melodies of Nina Simone and Madonna simultaneously at moments of idleness and behind the glamour and sequins, Tanya is still a little girl who plays with Barbie dolls, and designs clothes for her.
Tanya walked out of her dorm building on a sticky September evening and posed in front of the door. I almost peed on myself laughing at her outfit—tights, a blue t-shirt and a red onesie, the kind Jane Fonda wore in her workout tapes. We couldn’t believe she walked out her room and proudly into the student center to shock even more people.
Sophomore year, Tanya was the one who taught me about thrift stores, Yellow Tail wine and how to “suck that shit up and keep it pushing.” She taught me, without actually speaking, that the past shouldn’t be used as an excuse for the present and that the only person to please is God. We faithfully discuss campus gossip like two old ladies and gasp at the artistic images plastered on the pages of Vogue every month. We shop like it’s going out of style and agree that every now and then, big purchases are necessary to reap of benefits of hard work. Tanya and I play as hard as we work—and that’s a lot of partying.

Woman in Blue
I am one of colored girls Ntozake Shange talked about in her choreopoem. I am a collection of the ladies in brown, yellow, green, red, purple, orange and blue. At this moment, I find myself looking at the end of my iridescent rainbow, not quite considering suicide—I’ve got too much to live for—but wondering if I did enough to please everyone on my path. I’m a public relations student; so pleasing people is one of those underlying concepts they teaches us. We are trained to strategically fix problems so the world is a better place, yet I struggle with strategically fixing myself. I am like the sky, blue because it’s supposed to be, or at least that’s what they tell us. I just do as I’m told. Yet, I play the role of the voice of reason, the one that lends the ear, shoulder and fist when it comes to knocking sense back in the hearts of people.
My size is not a reflection of my seriousness because big things come in small packages, as my mother always said. My brown eyes polluted with freckles collect information, whether it’s the sociological glance at the public school system of New Orleans or the Fall 2010 trends from the runway. I read Roots when I was 12 and had nightmares for days until I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, then fell in love with the act of writing. I love hard and that love has been thrown back in my face on several occasions, mostly because of my ability to stand in the way of myself. That is, until my sisters come and push me out of my own way.
As May 2011 slowly approaches us, I find myself wanting to run back to freshman year when Brandi, Whitney, Tanya and I were just young women trying to leave our footprints on campus and stay afloat. Now as seniors, we are ready to move in the directions we spent nights talking about, although some plans have changed since I’m not going to grad school to study creative writing, and Whitney is taking a break before med school.
Well, at least some of us are ready. I am not prepared to be away from the women I call my sisters, to not be at arms length from them when I need a good laugh or a belt at the last minute. It scares me every time we go out as a team, conquering New Orleans one night at a time, that we’ll never have moments like that anymore. Who will be there when I have writer’s block or when I need someone to ride with me to the daiquiri shop, because I refuse to go there alone? The end of the rainbow is coming and I wonder will the four of us still stand together, knowing that another rainbow waits for us on the other side?
I have a feeling we’ll see the end of our rainbows just fine, standing on each other’s shoulders, making sure no one falls flat on their face.
# # #

FRUITFUL

Alyssa Patterson

It all started three weeks ago. It was a Sunday morning, so as usual I was sitting in church with my parents and my sister. The priest, Father Joseph, was a dinosaur and I could hardly keep up with what he was droning on about. I grabbed the Bible from my mother, however, to look at the reading, which she had so piously marked with a labeled post-it. Genesis 1: 26- 31. Fatefully, I read over the passage, an instance that rarely occurs and one phrase spoke out to me. Verse 28.

“And God blessed them: and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

Be fruitful and multiply. I had heard it hundreds of times before but it never resonated with me as it did that day. God wants me to make babies.

I felt enlightened. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was not looking for a loophole in the grand holy scheme of God. I simply never saw that verse the way it presented itself to me then. Of course I wasn’t supposed to just have sex out of wedlock. Whoever wrote the Bible probably figured the only people making babies would be married and so condemned any other kind of sex. In reality, anyone can be fruitful or multiply married or not. So I took it unto myself as a new mission. I was going to fulfill God’s will.

I thought about telling my sister all of this but then decided against it. She wouldn’t understand. Anyways, weren’t saints’ lives supposed to be full of disapproval and misunderstanding from others? I prepared myself for great suffering. The fact is, when doing the will of God, it often requires a lifetime of hardships and denial. I was prepared though, and I absolutely expected canonization.

So I immediately got to work the next day at school. I was and still am in my junior year of high school, which is apparently not a good time to find someone suitable to pass genes on with. On top of that, I had just gotten my period so I was off to a horrid start. I scoped out possible mates in all six of my classes. It did not look promising. One of the football players was in my biology class and he would be a great candidate, but last I heard he has a girlfriend. I considered this swimmer from my English class who has smiled at me a few times now but he has horrible B.O. so I ruled him out as well.

During lunch, I went to the library, as usual. I hated going to lunch and socializing with people I only pretended to like. Often, I was the sad-looking girl spending precious socialization hours in the library, including time afterschool. If the librarian weren’t such a total bitch I would probably spend even more time in there. She always there at the check-out counter like she wants to kill herself, as if she’s not getting paid to sit on her ass all day. One Friday I asked her how many movies I could check out at once (exciting weekend ahead of me) and she sighed and told me three. As if I was such a burden. As if anyone would be bothered or even notice if I checked out five (the more reasonable number that I had narrowed my choices down to). She was just a bitter old hag.

This particular day, I was preparing to ask her where the religious section was located. I was determined to research the lives of key saints. Of course I got cut in line by some asshole. He just hopped right in front of me and started asking something about science fiction. Lame. But then he turned around, and I saw how incredibly attractive he was. I’d never seen him before; he must be a new student. The librarian witch was all perked up and smiling at him when he walked away. She’d never done that for me. I gave her elevator eyes and walked away to follow this new possibility.

As I expected, he walked to the science fiction section. He was probably a total weirdo with my luck. But he had fantastic calves and so it didn’t even matter to me. I thought it was odd he didn’t have a backpack but I figured he probably left it at some desk. I scanned him up and down like a price check. He had straight blonde hair and golden tanned skin with perfect biceps just barely bulging through his t-shirt. He must have been an athlete. This was verified when I noticed he had on running shoes. If I wasn’t following a Divine plan, I would almost be nervous about approaching him.

We finally reached the sci-fi section and seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. He didn’t browse at all, which was a bummer, because it would have made it so easy to start a conversation. He pulled a few books off the shelves and didn’t either didn’t notice or didn’t care that I was standing literally four feet away just staring like some kind of demonic statue. I started getting annoyed, and he started walking away. I had to think fast.

“Wait!” I called out. He looked around. “Me?” he said. I couldn’t waste any time. I thought about the possibility of befriending him and taking this slow, but it didn’t appeal at the time because for some reason or another I blurted out, “Wanna have sex?”

He looked at me disgustedly and I felt incredibly self-conscious at that moment. Maybe I had done the wrong thing. Maybe it was all too freaky. No, I was a worker for God now. Nothing could be too extreme. I held my head high and straightened my back. I had God behind me, after all. What should I be afraid of?

He finally broke the silence. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he said, angrily.

I didn’t expect to offend anyone with my new mission; I could hardly see why he would even care if I did want to have sex with him. I replied no. What is with people these days? Maybe he was gay?

“I am brand new at this school and this is the welcome I get? Do you think that’s funny? You’re coming to the office with me immediately, young lady.”

Oh shit. I panic. How could I overlook the fact that he’s a teacher? Of course! No backpack, running shoes, friendly with the librarian. Shit! I never get in trouble. I completely freeze and don’t know what to do. I tried to explain myself and nothing came out. Of course the one fucking guy I find attractive is a new fucking teacher. Shit. I try to apologize but he’s furious. He’s convinced it’s some kind of practical joke or test. I consider agreeing that it was a joke but I cannot lie. I have to attest to my faith and stand up for God’s will. No matter what it means. I have to make this performance worthy of canonization.

“I am trying to do God’s will that is all. I don’t care whether or not you believe me, but I’m telling the truth. I am merely trying to follow His Divine path and if that is not a noble enough endeavor for you, I’m sorry. I did not realize you were a teacher and I apologize but you cannot possibly condemn me for simply following my God. Genesis 1 verse 28. Be fruitful and multiply! Does that mean nothing to you?! Because it means a lot to me.” I sigh and cover my eyes for dramatic impact.

I was grounded for over a year. Until I turn eighteen, are the words my dad used. My parents were livid when they got the call from my school. When I got home they looked like voracious bears guarding a cub. Except the exact opposite was happening. I thought for sure they were going to brutally murder me but instead, they made me promise that I understood that my mission was wrong and that I would completely abandon the plan. Not only was I not allowed out of the house, I was forbidden to be alone with any male under any circumstances. My parents were convinced I was some type of nympho waiting to throw myself onto the next guy I laid eyes on. As if. I guess I’ll just have to figure out some other way to gain my sainthood. Or just wait until I turn eighteen.