Mike | Chapter 6

Ninth Grade

The last day of my life started like any other day. Okay, so it wasn’t the last day of my life but I wished it was. Everything started out the way it should have, but then this thing happened, a shift in the universe or something, and then nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Before the day was over, normal had become obsolete.

When I got up in the morning, things were still right. I found a pimple, a little one, so it wasn’t so bad. I watched Bryan suck down twelve bowls of cereal without taking a breath and then I received my daily orders from Grammy. Bryan no longer did any household chores, something about him being a man and working and all that blah, blah. Personally, I think Grammy just preferred my cooking over his. The only thing different that morning, was that Mom was up and dressed, gazing out of the kitchen window and sipping a cup of coffee. That was very unusual. But then she spoke, and that was just plain weird.

“Lucinda, the coffee is good and strong,” she said to Grammy. It’d been a long time since Mom had said anything in English. We all turned to look at her.

“Thank you, Victoria,” Grammy replied, without missing a beat, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Mom turned back to the window, watching the birds hop the branches of the oak tree in the backyard.

“It’s going to be a lovely day, don’t you think, Bryan?” Mom asked, still following the movements of the jumpy little sparrows.

Bryan looked at her back, an unreadable expression on his face. He got up and left the kitchen without answering.

“He’s angry. He’s always been so passionate.” Mom turned to me. I felt my skin crawl. “You were the easiest child.” She smiled and I wished she hadn’t; it was immensely sad and full of regrets. I looked at the bowl in front of me, my stomach rolling like a tumbler, the toast I had eaten, spinning nauseatingly fast.

“Victoria, you must be getting tired dear, why don’t you go lay down?” Grammy asked solicitously.

“I think I’ll do some sketching. It’s been so long…” Mom trailed off, a distant look in her eyes.

“Yes dear, the pencils are in your room.” Mom left the kitchen with the cup still in her hand. Grammy turned to me.

“What are you waiting for? Get to school.” I got up to leave. “Mikaela?”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t,” I said.








I made it just in time for first period. I had taken the long way to school to avoid meeting with Jess. We hadn’t been seeing eye to eye on anything lately and I was still a little weirded out by Mom to deal with him. I slipped into my seat, Anne Clare pursing her lips at me. Mr. Marx stepped up the aisle before I could tell her to ease up on the Botox. He was handing out the results of the end of term exam, his fingers placing each test down on the desk with a little snap.

“I was quite surprised and very pleased to see that most of you studied for this exam!” He had a habit of ending all of his sentences on the upswing. “Of course, this will be a full third of your final grade!” He stopped at Anne Clare’s desk, laying her test down. “Well done!” She squeaked and looked around, extremely pleased with herself. Mr. Marx turned back to the class.

“I haven’t checked all of the averages yet, but most of you should benefit from these results!” He was smiling broadly; I don’t think he had been a teacher for more than a couple of years, he was still enthusiastic. He took one more step and stood in front of my desk. He looked concerned as he placed the test paper facedown. I reached for it, but his skinny finger was holding it down. “See me after class,” he said quietly, and with a little hop stepped up to the desk behind me.

I waited until he was in the next row before lifting the corner of the paper to glance at the grade. 58. In bright red marker. I knew Jess was watching me from across the room, curious to know what my grade was. I refused to look his way and slumped down in my seat instead.

Jess was waiting for me outside of the classroom, munching on a candy bar. “So what’d he say?” he asked through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Same crap,” I said, without looking at him. “ ‘I can see that you’re having trouble keeping up! We have tutoring after school, don’t be embarrassed to go! I’m going to have to fail you this semester!’. Same crap as always.”

“Seriously dude, you’re flunking? Look, if you need help, I can study with you…”

“I don’t need help, there’s nothing hard about history. I just don’t give a damn.” I picked up the pace, making Jess jog to keep up with me.

“I’m just saying, I can quiz you or something, make sure you know the stuff…”

“Last time I looked Jess, I was the smart one, you were the moron. Back off.” I left him standing in the middle of the hallway. I knew his color would be up, first his neck, then his ears, until he looked like a pomegranate.

He followed me down the hallway and stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. He was mad, madder than I’d seen him in a long time.

“Screw you.” His lips were thin white lines. “You always do that, you stuck up, stupid jerk. You think you can just blow people off, like they don’t count.” He waved his hand in front of my face. “You only think about yourself. That’s the only thing that’s important to you, isn’t it? Well, here’s news for you. Just because you’re smart, it doesn’t give you the right to mess with other people.” The hallway was clearing rapidly although a few kids stopped to listen to Jess’ rant. “So your family’s screwed up! You think you’re the only one?” I tried to step around him. I wasn’t even angry; I just wanted to leave.

“And don’t think I don’t know about your secret,” he said in a low voice as I walked by him. I stopped and he looked me in the eye. “I know about your arm. I know what you do.” My heart pounded loudly in my ears. “If I find out that you’ve done it again, I’ll tell.”

I left him standing there, breathing heavily, his belly shaking with each breath. I was unmoved by his anger, curiously detached and unemotional. But as I walked away, I felt the need to say one last thing to him.

“You’re a bigger moron than I thought you were. Screw you.”

Sitting in my next class, I thought about what Jess had said. I knew that he knew. He’d figured something out last summer when I wore long sleeves everyday. I’d always change the subject and point out his fat knees or his frizzy hair. There was that time though, when I showed up at his house after a fight with Grammy. She was arguing with me all of the time now, usually over chores. Jess and I were sitting at his kitchen table, finishing up a plate of homemade cookies, when Jess noticed that I had my fingers up my sleeve, rubbing back and forth. It was soothing to feel the ridges of my scars, particularly when I was stressed out and couldn’t cut. If I touched them a certain way, it was as though I was writing a secret language. There was something strange and mysterious about that. But I hadn’t realized I was doing it, until I saw the look on Jess’ face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, without taking his eyes off me.

“Scratching, what do you think?” I reached for another cookie. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a homemade cookie before.”

“Why?”

“Cause nobody at home bakes them, that’s why.”

“Why are you scratching your arm?”

“It’s a bug bite, okay? Let it go.” He continued to stare at me. “Let it go, Jess.” He dropped his eyes. He hadn’t mentioned it since. I knew Jess, if he was really going to rat me out, he would’ve already.

A large backpack thumped on the desk beside me, pulling me back into the present. Lucas Green sat down.

“Hey, Mike.”

“Hi. What’s going on?” He looked like he’d been running hard; his cheeks were rosy and his hair messy; but in actuality, he’d left his house that way. His cheeks are always rosy and his hair fashionably messy. Every girl in the school either loves him or hates him, for the same reason - he’s insanely gorgeous. Personally, I’m immune to his shiny hair and blue eyes, but I think it would be humbling for him to get at least one pimple while he’s in high school. Oh, I’ll admit it, I thought he was cute in the 8th grade - but it got a little weird after he told me he was gay.

“What’s that?” I asked pointing to the oversized portfolio he carried, in addition to his backpack.

“Mrs. Clarkson asked me to bring my work in.”

“What for?”

“She wants to put a portfolio together to send to Hillman Art School.”

“She thinks you’re good enough to go to art school? That’s a real compliment Lucas; she’s really snooty.”

“I believe ‘discerning’ is the correct word,” he said with a smile. He has perfect teeth.

“Whatever. So she likes your work, huh?”

“I guess. It’s just an idea. Assuming Hillman likes it, my dad is never going to let me go.”

“Why not?”

He stuck his chest out and tucked his chin in. “ ‘It’s an unreliable way to make a living,’ ” he said in a deep voice. “ ‘No son of mine is goin’ to mooch off other people, just so he can color pictures all day.’ That’s what he’d say.”

“I bet that if you got accepted, he’d come around.”

“No, he won’t. You don’t know my dad, he’s still military even though he’s been retired for three years ago. He still has all of his uniforms perfectly aligned in the closet.” Lucas gestured to the portfolio. “This is just a waste of time.”

“You could bring up your mother. Just tell him, ‘mom loved art, she would be crazy happy that I’m talented’; something like that.”

“I don’t even remember my mother, Mike; for all I know she hated art. Nothing’s going to change Dad’s mind. He wants me to be cop or a soldier or a wrestler or something.”

I looked at Lucas from head to toe. He was taller than me and not too skinny. “Well, I suppose you could be a cop, but a wrestler? Gimme a break.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I just want to paint. I wish he would understand that.”

“Tell him.”

“I have. He’s stubborn. Nothing’s going to change his mind.”

“If you give up before…”

“It’s not just about art, Mike. There’s more to it.” He fidgeted. “My dad’s afraid that if I leave home, he won’t be able to stop me from dating.”

“Oh. Would you? Date, I mean.”

“Of course, I would. I’m normal, you know.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re about as normal as I am.”

He gave me a brilliant smile; long, dark eyelashes swept downward in a long curve, his lips turned up in a disarming grin.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“With your eyes…never mind.”

Mrs. Moreno walked in, followed by Ms Restor, the vice principal. I tensed for a moment. Wait a minute, it can’t be for me, this isn’t English. I relaxed.

“Mikaela Watts, would you please come with me.” It is for me. The class started talking and giggling. Mrs. Moreno quieted them down. “Clase, por favor…”

Ms Restor stood patiently by the desk. I was confused. They had never come for me before, and besides, I hadn’t done anything.

“It wasn’t me,” I said perturbed.

“You’re not in trouble Mikaela. Come, I want to talk to you. Your brother is in the hallway.” And that’s when the shift in the universe happened.

It wasn’t just Bryan out there, but Uncle Billy, too. He’s tall and fat and happy, the opposite of Grammy. He had a small, sad smile on his face. Bryan was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“What?” I asked. I stood there with my unzippered backpack hanging from my arm, books slipping out one at a time. Bryan waited until History hit the ground and split open, before telling me.

“Mom’s dead.”





The house was full of people. All I saw, everywhere I looked, was black. It was a good idea, in this family, I thought, to always have a clean black outfit; you never knew who was going next.

I sat in the corner reading chair, watching the mourners mingle and eat ham. The house smelled like a delicatessen, everybody brought a casserole, handing it to Aunt Betty at the door like an entrance ticket. It was a good thing too, the way they ate. We wouldn’t have had enough food in the house.

I saw that most of the people there were Morgans, Grammy’s family. There was Aunt Betty and her husband Frank, who always smells like gasoline, and their fat daughter Margaret, who also smells like gas. Uncle Billy and his similarly jolly wife, Maureen; and their three grown, pleasant children - Bill Jr., Peggy and Joan. Dad had once mentioned that he and Peggy had shared a first kiss when they were eleven years old. I watched her move around the room, laying her hands on everyone, rubbing shoulders and smoothing hair. What would have happened if they’d kissed twice? Cousins, yuck. Besides it doesn’t matter anymore.

Aunt Ethel was there too, skulking along the wall like a cockroach, watching me. I watched her back; she had a look about her that I had never noticed before. A closed off house, that’s what she looks like; locked up and dusty, a lone face staring out of the upstairs window. She had a secret, and now that I knew about it - the bridge and Charlotte Cross - it felt like she was practically screaming it out loud. I chuckled quietly in my corner, the only one aware that Aunt Ethel was an accessory to murder. She watched me. I watched her back.

There were Watts’ there too; lots of them, names I couldn’t remember, but I remembered their faces because they had been at Dad’s funeral. I didn’t understand why they chose to come to Mom’s. I wouldn’t have, if I’d had a choice.

I saw a couple of Wagners wandering around the food table; Mom’s family, an
aunt and uncle maybe, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. Neither one talked to me. They left shortly after they had arrived. Something like what Mom had done.

Bryan came to the funeral with all of his ex-girlfriends. They had formed a ring around him at the cemetery and sobbed throughout the service even though none of them had ever met Mom. Uncle Billy thought it was funny.

“The boy’s got himself a harem, Lucinda.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Billy,” was all Grammy said.

Bryan disappeared immediately after changing out of his black suit, squealing out of the driveway, four other cars packed with girls following him. We didn’t see him for two days.

I avoided everyone as much as I could, their conversations were making me queasy; ‘poor children; such a tragedy; blessing that Lucinda is here for them.’ Poor, what did that have to do with anything?

Once in a while, someone would sit with me.

“You’ve grown so much, Mikaela,” a Morgan aunt asked me between bites of deviled eggs. “How old are you now?”

“Nine, ma’am,” I replied.

“My, you’re tall for a nine year old!”

“Yes ma’am. It’s been a problem.”

Later, it was Cousin Peggy. “Are you hungry, honey?”

“No ma’am.” I watched her hands, prepared to move if they came towards me.

“Shannon was asking about you.” Shannon was her daughter. “She’s not sure how to approach you, but she’d like to spend some time with you.”

I looked across the room where Shannon was standing. Perfect face, perfect figure, perfect hair. I tried not to sneer. “Yes ma’am, that would be nice.”

“I think we can find something that’s fun for a fifteen year old and a nine year old.”

“Is Shannon nine?” I asked innocently.

“Why no, I thought you were! That’s what Aunt Jean said.” She pondered. “Where would she get that idea?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “No telling, ma’am.” I glanced over at her. Her eyes were crinkled at the corners. I looked at the ceiling.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?”

I shook my head. “No ma’am.” She reached over and rubbed my arm before I could scoot away. I knew she couldn’t feel the ridges of my scars through the thick sweater, but I moved my arm anyway.

“Do you want to talk, honey? We could go somewhere quieter.” She didn’t try to touch me again.

“No, ma’am, I’m fine,” I said, wondering what I could say that would make her go away.

Grammy saved me by fainting in the middle of the potato salad.

Everyone rushed to pick her up. She’d made a huge mess; it was funny watching the potato chunks fall out of her hair; Bryan would have gone to town with this one.

There was a lots of exclaiming and fussing; I didn’t know what everyone was so worried about. It would take more than a little potato salad to take Grammy out. She hadn’t even hit the floor; Uncle Doug, Granddad’s brother, had caught her before she went down all the way. He had been hovering around Grammy the entire day, no, the entire weekend. There was something pretty wrong about that, but I wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was that Grandad had only been dead ten years.

So I stayed in the corner reading chair, and watched everyone flip out. That’s when Aunt Ethel made her move.

She’d waited until all the other women escorted Grammy to the bedroom, presumably for a shower, and the men sat around the television set or went outside for a cigarette. Except Uncle Billy, he guarded the food. And Uncle Doug - he waited outside Grammy’s door while she argued with Betty and Peggy and the others, inside the bedroom. I had taken my eyes off Aunt Ethel while Grammy was collapsing, so I hadn’t noticed that she had crept closer. When I looked for her again, she was three feet away from me. Only behind me. I looked at her. She looked back. Then she sat down beside me and watched Uncle Billy fill his fourth plate.

“Billy’s going to gain weight, if he doesn’t watch what he eats,” she said in a soft voice.

“Going to?” I added sarcastically.

“He’s always loved food.” She sat with her ankles crossed, her knees pressed
together. It was a few seconds before she spoke again.

“Lucinda is a strong woman; I’m sure she’ll be fine.” I wondered what Aunt Ethel wanted. “She needs help around here, though.” She glanced at me timidly. “I’m going to be staying for a few days.”

I tried to be polite. “I don’t think we need help, Aunt Ethel. You’d be wasting your time.”

“I don’t have anything else to do, I would enjoy it.”

“There’s no one at home the whole day, you know. Grammy fights with me and Bryan all the time. You wouldn’t want to be in that mess, would you?”

“Maybe with me to help around the house, there would be less things to argue about.” She wasn’t getting it.

“There’s no room for another person, Aunt Ethel. We’re crowded.”

She blushed. “I don’t want to impose, of course…”

“We don’t need anyone butting in,” I said, a little too sharply. Her eyes were enormous. I felt like I’d just kicked a kitten.

“Aunt Ethel, it’s just that…we’ve only got Mom’s room, you wouldn’t want to sleep in there, would you?”

“No, of course not,” she said gently. “I thought I would sleep in your room since you would be taking Victoria’s.”

I felt the blood leave my face. “No ma’am. I’m not taking that room. I’m staying right where I’ve always been.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll take Victoria’s room, if you don’t mind. Only for a few days, of course.” She smiled shyly.

Why did I suddenly feel duped?

Uncle Billy joined us. “Hello girls.” He offered us his heaping plate of food. “Anybody want a bite?” We both declined. “This ham is great, I’ll have to find out who brought it and from where.” He took a bite. “That was some exit, wasn’t it?” he said through a mouthful. “Lucinda was trying to get away from everyone, and they went and followed her into the bedroom. Heeheehee.” Uncle Billy’s giggles were incredibly silly, especially after a funeral.

“Are you girls sure I can’t tempt you with an olive?” He held one between his beefy fingers. “This one still has a caper in it.”

“Uncle Billy, don’t you think it’s a bad idea for Aunt Ethel to stay with us?”

He thought about it. “You know, that’s a great idea. No need for you to be alone, Ethel…”

You’re not getting me, Uncle Billy.” I shook my head at him and arched my eyebrows. “Aunt Ethel would be very uncomfortable here.” I emphasized each word.

He looked at me questioningly. “You mean sleeping in Victoria’s bedroom? Oh, well, a fresh coat of paint, new furniture; it’ll be spiffy in no time. I’ll let Bill know.” He took a bite of prosciutto and smiled at Ethel as she accepted the olive he offered her. I slumped in my chair, refusing to accept defeat.

Aunt Ethel moved in five days later. Bill Jr. and a couple of other cousins painted Mom’s room a creamy white that gave the impression that the lights were always on. When they replaced the battered furniture, it was as though the room belonged in another house. Grammy took one look at it, and ordered Bill and Bryan to paint the living room and kitchen too. I refused them entry into my little closet; I liked it just the way it was.

Bryan was reticent initially, coming in late and going out early, until one evening he stayed for dinner. Aunt Ethel had taken over the cooking; I didn’t care, I told myself, it wasn’t like I was going to miss it or anything. Bryan was hooked after one bite of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Aunt Ethel beamed when he told her it was the ‘best mashed potatoes I have ever eaten in my entire life!’. Then he turned to me.

“Real potatoes, Mike. Maybe that’s what you should have tried.” I almost threw my plate at him.

But I had to admit, that despite the fact that we had an old spinster mouse living with us, she was incredibly productive. Besides the cooking, she did the laundry and the housework too. Grammy’s house had never been cleaner. That left me nothing to do after school except homework, which I didn’t want to do anyway.

Which is where I got seriously confused. Mom’s death meant a stop, I thought, to the craziness. It was supposed to be the end of the insanity that floated around Grammy’s house like dandelion seeds in a meadow. But instead living a normal life - which is what everyone else seemed to have slipped into - I discovered that those seeds had already implanted themselves in me, and I couldn’t stop the lunacy from bubbling over at the end of the day.

So I cut. I cut when I was down and miserable. I cut after I had finished a delicious dinner during which Grammy and Ethel laughed like girls. I cut when I could get away with it, and sometimes even when there was a chance of getting caught; I just couldn’t control the impulse anymore. And I realized one night, as I gripped the blade tightly between bloodless fingers, that cutting had a hold on me like Mom never did, and I had no idea how to stop it.

Chapter Seven