Mike | Chapter 5

Eighth Grade

Eighth grade passed in a blurry, dimmed kind of way. It could be that I had a surge of hormones that year and that's why I can't remember most of it; or that it was boring and not worth remembering. But it could also have been that it was a pretty bad time and I just chose to forget it.

A couple of things are so clear though, that the edges of those images cut into my mind like glass. I remember the awkwardness and I remember the betrayals, both intertwined like the branches of a tree, and impossible to separate. I don't remember one without the other and sometimes I wonder if I had caused the betrayals to happen, simply by growing up.

It started with a pimple; a clear, unmistakable sign that I was in puberty. My face, which had been smooth and clear - if you didn't count freckles - gave in without a fight one night while I slept unsuspecting. It was the middle of eighth grade by then, and I hadn't had even one zit, when I woke up in the morning with a huge one on my forehead, round as a goose egg and almost as big.

Once I realized it was there, I couldn't forget it. Sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of lumpy oatmeal in front of me, I touched it obsessively. I traced around its perimeter and imagined I could feel it coming out of my face. I looked at it cross eyed, and between feeling it pulse in my head and trying to look at it, I almost got lost in sensory overload. It was strangely hypnotic.

When I blinked to straighten out my eyes, I caught sight of Bryan across the table. He was shoveling huge spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in a week.

A drop of milk, which perched on his lower lip like a quivering white frog, suddenly jumped back into the bowl as he chomped down another spoonful, devouring countless, little cheerios.

"What the hell are you looking at, moron?"

"Beats me," I mumbled, annoyed that he'd caught me staring at him.

"Quit touching that zit," Grammy said, "dirty fingers will infect it."

"No it won't," I said contrarily, but dropped my hand anyway.

"Yeah, then it might get big," Bryan snickered, "not small and non-noticeable, like now."

"You mean, un-noticeable, stupid," I said scornfully.

"Whatever, at least I don't have a zit that's bigger than my nose."

I shot him a hteful look. "Pimples don't last forever. Stupidity does."

"So does UGLINESS, good luck getting a boyfriend, princess. Oh, wait a minute, you're already hooked up with carrot boy, aren't you?"

"Shut up about Jess. He's not my boyfriend."

Bryan smirked. "Take it back," I said.

Bryan sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. "No."

I picked up my bowl of oatmeal and slowly raised it. "Take it back," I whispered menacingly. "Now." His smirk grew. I aimed the oatmeal at his chest; Grammy saved him.

"Mikaela, put that bowl down, I don't have time for your nonsense. Bryan, I'll be working until 7 tonight, cook dinner and keep a plate warm for me for goodness sakes. I need to eat too. Mikaela, make sure your mother gets some food in her this time, and get the laundry..."

"Not my turn tonight," Bryan interjected, "got other things to do," and stood to leave.

"I'm not asking you, boy. I believe there are pork chops in the freezer and mashed potato mix in the pantry."

"I'm not doing it," he said defiantly.

"You will and without backtalk."

"No, I won't." Bryan leaned casually against the table and crossed his arms. Chin cocked and challenge laid out, he waited for Grammy's response. This scene was a familiar one to me since it was playing out almost daily. I couldn't pinpoint exactly who's fault it was or who it was that started the fights. Sometimes it was that Grammy didn't ask but just told, and Bryan didn't do too well with that. Sometimes it was that Grammy was tired after a shift and a half at the store and sometimes it was that Bryan was irritable and moody. But sometimes, it was that Grammy hated us for being there; or that Bryan was just spoiling for a fight.

"I'm going out tonight," he said cockily.

"If you think I'm going to break my back supporting you while you spend your nights getting in trouble with those hoodlums..."

"I don't care if you like my friends, I'm still going out."

"I don't like your friends, and I won't have you picking up bad habits either. Not as long as you live in my house!"

"It wasn't my idea to live in your house! I don't want to be here!"

My eardrums felt full, as though water had been poured into them. It muffled the shouting enough so that the angry words became indistinguishable noises. I got up quietly and slinked out towards the back porch. Glancing back before closing the screen door, I thought maybe they'd change their minds and let it go. But that's not what I saw. Grammy had gripped the back of a chair, her blue eyes, which always reminded me of plastic toy crystals, glinted fiercely in the morning light. They looked like chipped ice.

Bryan, having lost his cool demeanor, stuttered and spit, the blotches on his cheeks deepening with each hateful word. He pointed and prodded the air with his finger and paced back and forth. The last thing I heard on the way out, was a chair being slammed on the floor.

Five minutes later, I was halfway to the middle school, Jess chatting nonstop beside me.

"So what's with the screaming, dude?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, there's always something up with your family."

"Not today."

"Okay, I get it." He grinned. "I feel taller this morning. Let's measure."

"Jess, it's getting old."

"You told it, dude."

"Yeah, but why? Why is it so important for you to be taller than me?"

"Just is."

"Fine, but this is the last time."

"Right here." We stopped at a light pole and Jess pulled out a red marker. "You first," he told me. I stepped up to the pole and turned so that I was facing him.

"Well?" I said, "go ahead." Jess grinned wider and reached up to put the marker on the top of my head, pressing down. I could feel the little metal hook sinking into my scalp.

"Jess, ease up, that hurts!"

"Right, my turn." He switched places with me. "Don't mess with my hair, I worked really hard on it this morning."

"Why?"

"Umm, no reason," he said evasively.

"Yeah, there is. Tell me or I won't measure you."

He rolled his eyes. "No big deal. I'm just going to talk with someone."

"Who?" I asked, curious. "Talk about what?"

"Nobody you know. C'mon, measure." He stood erect with his back to the pole, waiting for me. I knew that if I looked down, I would see him standing on his toes. I held the marker in my hand. This stunk like a betrayal.

"Uh, uh. Not until you tell me."

"Mike. C'mon," he whined. He rubbed his nose and sniffed while looking at the sky. I waited.

"Okay!" he burst out, turning a light shade of red. "I'm going to ask Whitley out."

I twisted my lips in disgust. "Titley Whitley? She's such a freak!"

"Don't call her that! She can't help that she's...developed," he stammered. "My mom says that kids develop at different rates, that's why you're taller than me right now..."

"Whitley hasn't developed at all." I laughed out loud. "She stuffs, stupid!" I laughed some more.

"That's really mean, Mike. Just because you're as flat as my math book..." I cut him off, suddenly angry.

"And you're short! I know that you grow your hair straight up so that you'll look like you're taller than me. You're not fooling anybody!"

"So! You're not just tall, you're mutant tall! Nobody can keep up with you, freak!" He shouted loudly at me, his face turning a darker red.

"And you're fat!" I screamed back, feeling the heat in my own face.

"At least I'm not starving skinny, don't you have any food in your house?! Or are you so busy yelling at each other, you don't have time to eat?" He suddenly clamped his lips together and stared at the ground. I threw the marker at his chest and stalked off, fuming, biting back the words that were still on my tongue. By the time I got to school, I had cooled off, having decided that I wouldn't talk to Jess for the rest of my life.

I saw him two different times that morning. The first time, I made sure he understood that he was no longer on my Favorite People list, having been erased in a single stroke. I wouldn't even walk on the same side of the hallway as him. He didn't look sorry either, the one time I snuck a peek.

The second time was really a bunch of times because it was math class and he sat two seats and one row over from me and I had to look at his red afro the entire class. It was about six inches above his forehead with frizzy curls on top. And you're still shorter than me. HaHa. He looked back at me a couple of times and each time I looked away, sticking my chin up.

The last time, he looked before I turned away, he grinned and twisted his lips like he might be sorry. So I thought I might give him a second chance to apologize after class. But when the bell rang, Whitley got to his desk first and smiled at him. Not just smiled, but smiled, like that, and then Jess smiled back. I walked right by the two of them, Jess completely and forever off my Favorite People list, never to be resuscitated.

At lunchtime, I skipped the food line and went straight out to the break area. There was hardly anyone else out there, apparently most of the kids ate the school lunch.

I pulled out a notebook, the one that looks like the rest of the notebooks. After Grammy found my papers in my book bag that one time, I figured that she wouldn't know that the stories were there if I wrote them in a notebook that looked like the others. I was hiding it in front of her face.

I sat down on a bench with my back against the concrete wall and crossed my legs. With my notebook open to a clean page, I wrote.


The Brilliant Girl Who was Really a Princess


A really brilliant girl, who was surrounded by many evil morons, yes many, wanted to claim the throne her Genius King Father had left her when he was kidnapped and dragged away in the middle of the night.

The Evil Hurtful Witch, who was also the king's mother, had zapped the Beautiful Mother Queen into a permanent psychotic spell. The Hurtful Witch took control of the throne and ruled unjustly. The Fool called Bryan, was right beside her.


I crossed it all out; it sounded way too much like my own family and I didn't want to think about them at all. I was getting good at forgetting about them, an expert even. I started writing a new story.


The Evil Ones

The girl hid in the darkest corners of her room, hiding from the evil creatures that searched for her. They couldn't see her because she wore the powerful invisibility ring, which was studded with diamonds.

This girl was called Moira, after the beautiful princess of the land which she had been switched with at birth. That year all of the girls born were called Moira too, but the girl knew beyond a doubt that she was the real Moira.

Moira touched the two holes in her neck. They were red and swollen like angry volcanoes. Moira knew it was her own fault that she had gotten bitten, she hadn't listened to the Genius King who gave the people his wisdom before disappearing forever. He had said,

'Don't trust anyone! There's evil everywhere, even in your own homes!'

But Moira hadn't listened, and now she had two holes in her neck that were disgusting.

Moira cold hear the evil Old Woman and the evil Stupid Teenager and also the Demon Possessed Queen, (who the evil Old Woman kept as her pet), coming closer. Moira the princess, was in trouble.

So she hid in the darkest corner and hoped that the powerful invisibility ring would protect her. But the evil ones came at her and she realized that the ring was fake and that she had been deceived by the Red Headed Betrayer. As the evil ones reached for her, she remembered the Genius King's final words:

'Beware! Families are like vampires that we invited in...'


Hmmm. I thought a little perplexed. Have I read this story somewhere before? It sounds familiar.

"What's that you're writing?" I jumped about a foot in the air. Anne Clare was standing uncomfortably close, just out of sight on my left, like a traffic cop. I looked around and noticed that the break area was pretty crowded. I had lost track of time.

"I said, what are you writing?" Anne Clare's whiny voice buzzed unpleasantly. She resembled one of those big blue flies, the ones with the giant globes for eyes. Anne Clare had those too.

"Are you journaling?" she asked brightly. "Mama says that journaling helps us appreciate our blessings." Anne Clare was always optimistic, it came with being so spoiled you stunk.

"Even orphans like you have something to be grateful for," she continued. "They could have put you in a home. You know, they make really pretty journals now, you shouldn't use school notebooks. Ms Phillips wouldn't like it if she knew."

I turned to face her. "Have you gotten your period yet?" He eyes widened in surprise then hurt. "Maybe you should see a doctor about that," I added, as she spun on her heels and walked off. "Don't forget to journal it!" I called after her. Immensely pleased with myself, I packed up and went to class.

I had history next, which was sometimes interesting, if Mr. Luther didn't talk. He sounded like moose with a cold and when he lectured it made me sleepy. I preferred to read the textbook. Jess wasn't in that class, but Anne Clare was and when I went to sit down, I noticed that she had been crying. I tried to ignore her, but that was hard when I could see and hear her sniffling and hiccuping. After a while I started to feel guilty. I mean, I guess I did kind of hurt her feelings even if she is a spoiled crybaby. But I suppose, it I thought really hard about it, she wasn't the one who had made me mad. That had been Jess. Well, maybe it wasn't Jess, he'd just walked me to school. It had to be Titley Whitley's fault for butting in on my time with Jess, which she was only able to do because he fell for her big boobs. But they weren't real; so maybe it wasn't her fault either. She couldn't help that she was flat and needed to stuff.

So I sat there watching Anne Clare's neck for a long time, watching her hiccup then bounce with each hiccup, wondering why I didn't know who had made me mad, when I knew who hadn't. I was only getting myself more confused when Anne Clare breathed in and out in a huge sigh.

"Anne Clare," I whispered. She sniffed. "Anne Clare, I didn't mean it." What was it Jess had said that morning about growing up? "Ummm, kids grow at different rates, you'll get yours really soon."

She sniffed again and turned around. "Are you saying you're sorry?"

"You just surprised me by standing so close to me."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "So are you? Saying you're sorry?"

I resisted the urge to squeeze her neck. "I...I was mad at someone else. I...um, yeah."

"Oh. Okay." She looked down at her desk. "I did go to the doctor." Don't tell me anymore! Please!!
"He said I would just have to wait patiently, that I couldn't be first in everything. Mama wasn't pleased with us."

I don't know whether it was the tone she used, or the way a frown line appeared between her eyes or how her mouth turned downward when she mentioned her mother.

"Was your mother mad at you?" I asked, despite all the little warning sirens going off in my had. Beware! Anne Clare wants to talk!
"No. She's just concerned that I haven't gotten my cycle yet." Her lip quivered. "Well, maybe a little disappointed. But she has every right to be, I am going to be the last one."

Mr. Luther snapped his fingers at us and Anne Clare turned around. I watched her bend over her notebook, wondering how she'd managed to make me feel sorry for her.

I finished the day without seeing Jess, a good thing since I was still mad at him. I took the long way home too, avoiding Anne Clare who followed me around the rest of the afternoon like I was her best friend or something. I knew that I was going to pay for being nice to her. I'll have to insult her her tomorrow.

Home was dark and quiet when I walked through the door. I peeked into the living room and saw that Mom was watching the TV with the volume off. She was wearing day clothes instead of pajamas and that meant she was having a good day.

"Mom? You okay?"

"Yes, dear. I'm watching television."

Her voice seemed stronger today. "Everything all right?" I asked warily, still not convinced that she was okay.

"Yes. I took a shower. I feel much better."

I left her there, watching a show about whales with the volume turned down and went to do my homework. I checked in on her several times that evening, as I did my chores and started dinner too, since I knew Bryan wasn't coming home. Mom seemed okay each time and I wondered if she was getting better. But it was so brief a thought that I might have imagined it, passing as it did like a puff of smoke in a hurricane. And yet she was dressed, and talking a little and even ate a couple of bites of dinner without too much prompting. Maybe that's why I was caught unaware later on that night, when all hell broke loose in Grammy's little house.

Grammy came home before Bryan, and without saying a word, ate her pork chop and mashed potatoes. I had gotten a lot better at cooking in the last year, so the pork chops were only black on the edges.

"Where's Bryan?" she finally asked.

"Don't know, Grammy. Maybe at the library?" I said cagily.

"Hmmph. He doesn't have a library card."

"You don't need one to study there..." I trailed off, both of us knowing that Bryan wouldn't be caught dead in the library. Or studying.

At 10 o'clock, she told me to put Mom to bed. I hesistated. I hated touching Mom. But one look at Grammy's face convinced me to save the arguments for another day. It turned out to be easy though; Mom was sleepy, I could tell, because she was staring at the spot above the TV, instead of the TV itself. I tried to get her to put her pajamas on in the bathroom, but all she did was sit on the pot and pee. So when I pulled off her shirt and pants, I focused on the dresser to my right, and never looked at her. I had once, and dreamt about skeletons coming out of the grave and making me feed them. She went to sleep instantly, a small smile on her lips. Once in my own bed, I fell asleep quickly too and slept without any dreams.

I awoke slowly sometime later, the loud voices prods with a dull stick, until the sound of crashing furniture poked me sharply, pulling me into full consciousness.

Bryan's home. Grammy's awake. My first and second thoughts. And my third. They're really going at it. I waited for the worse to pass, for them to finally calm down and walk away, which they had always managed to do before. But that night, the timbre of their shouting was different, desperate, out of control, and slowed only by the need to suck in breath. So I got up. I knew I couldn't stop either one of them; understood that I was not the cause of this particular fight, and yet somehow a part of it. I tiptoed into the hallway, with no intentions at all, no reason to be there, no way to help. But Mom, I saw, had gotten up first.

She stood in the doorway of the living room still unseen by Grammy or Bryan, the light passing through her gown and illuminating her figure. It hung on her, Dad had given it to her the Christmas before his accident. She was vey thin.

I was so busy watching Mom, that I didn't realize that Bryan was incensed enough to throw a chair across the room. It crashed into a set of silver frames, pictures of Granddad and Grammy and Dad as a baby; of a boy that looked like me, happy, growing up in this house. Grammy froze, the glass pieces scattered all over the floor, one shard poking through a picture of Dad with his arm around Grammy.

I think she lost her mind. That's the only explanation I could think of, as I watched her run across the room and begin beating Bryan with one of the frame pieces. He tried to get away, but that only made her madder, so she hit him with her fists too. I think she might have beaten him unconscious if Mom hadn't added to the insanity. I suppose one could say it was her motherly instinct keeping in, but she didn't have any of that according to Grammy, so it had to be that she wanted to share her own brand of craziness.

She screamed. And screamed and screamed. And stopped long enough to gulp a lungful of air and then scream again. I think she might have continued nonstop, if Grammy hadn't stopped beating Bryan and gone over to her. She didn't beat Mom though, only slapped her twice and then a third time when Mom started to mewl and whimper like a crated dog.

The fight ended there. Grammy put Mom to bed, then herself. Bryan began to pick up the pieces of broken furniture and after a few moments, I helped him. I heard him sniffle and remembering Anne Clare, I thought he might be crying. But glancing over at him, I saw that it wasn't tears that had made him sniff, but a bloody nose. He left me silently once the living room was reasonably cleaned up, walking out the front door without looking back. I was left alone.

I don't know what made me go down to the basement that night. I had the house to myself, everyone else having retreated to their rooms, and if Grammy had given Mom her sleeping medicine and maybe took some herself, they were probably both asleep. But I guess the basement was light years away from my room or the kitchen or the living room with the carpet peppered with little pieces of broken glass. I had been down there several times already, and had fixed a small corner by the furnace with a rug and old blankets. I had stocked it with books and a spare notebook too. It was mainly a place to escape the screaming and the endless chores, and mostly I sat there and thought of little.

It was different tonight though. My hands shook, it hurt to keep my eyes open, I twitched. So I sat on my little rug and leaned against my pillows and pinched myself. And I found that if I pinched hard enough, I felt better. It hurt at first, but then the pain faded, and I felt better. And I pinched again. Until I settled down enough to go to bed. I slept well that night.

In the morning, everything was back to normal. Bryan sat across from me, shoveling corn flakes this time, into his cavernous mouth. Grammy was setting out the crockpot for chili and Mom was still asleep. Even the living room was clean; I'd heard Grammy vacuuming at 5 in the morning.

The only difference was that I had an interesting pattern of bruises on my forearm, which I kept covered up with my long sleeve. Yes, everything was back to normal.

The fights started several days later, but not as bad as that one night; bad enough though, that my stomach always felt tight and my hands trembled. I don't know who was more nuts those few weeks in eight grade - Mom or me.

Then a miracle happened; Bryan got a girlfriend. He name was Ashlee and she was pretty and blond and probably dumber than him. But none of that mattered. What was important was that she kept Bryan occupied, and because she was expensive, Bryan had to get a job after school. That meant that Bryan and Grammy rarely saw each other and never had time to fight. I don't remember what happened to Ashlee, except that she didn't last long; after a few weeks she sort of disappeared and was quickly replaced by another girl who found Bryan hot. Which didn't say much about her either.

What I do remember clearly, is that I got tall in the spring of eighth grade. My body seemed to be rushing through the process to get it done overnight. It was probably the most malicious betrayal to date, making me an alien among all the little humans. My head floated above everyone else's; how was I supposed to blend? I passed Grammy on the way up to the stratosphere, and crushed Jess' chances of catching up with me. He never really had a chance anyway, his mom made him get a haircut after he poked her in the eye with his afro.

The other thing about that year that I remember as clearly as though it still lingers in my nose, is the smell of the sofa - stinky and sweet, like Bryan's socks and Grammy's shampoo mixed together. It wafted up my nose every time I plopped my head unto the rough fabric. I slept a lot on the sofa that spring, forced there by Mom's nightly walks that always ended up in my bedroom. The first time she climbed into my bed, I awoke instantly, and managed to get her back in her own bed. But it was as though she were on autopilot and my bed was her destination, and she showed up every single night.

I slept on the sofa for a while, or at least tried to, since I lay awake half the night waiting for her to find me in the living room. I eventually moved down to the basement, taking my alarm clock with me so I could get upstairs before Grammy got up.

That's where pinching became a habit. When that didn't work anymore, I scratched; long, red gouges that rose into velvety smooth lines. But I bit my nails badly, bad enough that sometimes I only had ragged nubs on the tips of my fingers. For a while I tortured myself trying not to bite them, I enen dipped my fingers in alcohol, but that burned fiercely because I had cheated and bitten them anyway.

I had no trouble finding something sharp in the basement. After the first cut, which was really hard to make because it was so, I don't know, violent, well, it wasn't so hard anymore. I had discovered that cutting made my stomach unclench and my hands steady; it helped me get through another sucky day at school and I slept so much better, even when my arm throbbed.

After Grammy found out that Mom was wandering the house at night, she increased her sleeping medicine. I was able to go back to my own bed. But I did it anyway, I cut anyway, because it took away the dreams and made things just a little bit easier.

Chapter Six