What Have I Done?

I’m an expert at going against the flow.  I will not be one of them.  Every other girl at my high school has long, straightened hair.  When they walk by, you can smell the crispy, burnt ends.  Sort of like a campfire.  Not really.  Campfires smell good.

I embraced my curls.  My mom bought me Herbal Essence Tousle Me Softly shampoo and conditioner by the gallon.  Bad hair day?  No prob.  I’d sweep my bra strap-length jumble into a messy, hair-banded bun.  Pull out strategic tendrils to frame my face, accent my Kraft Caramel eyes.

Last semester in biology lab, some girl felt sick.  We had to open windows to let the Formaldehyde fumes escape.  Icy, Appalachian air rushed the room.  I liberated my hair, to warm my neck and shoulders.

“What is that smell?

“Is it flowers?”

“Naw.  I think it’s apples.”

I surveyed the guys around me—hotties, creepers, athletes.  They all had their noses in the air.  They closed in, sniffing.  A blonde wrestler boy pointed at me.

“It’s her,” he said.  He stuck his face in my curls and inhaled.  “It’s her hair.  Holy crap!  It smells amazing!”

           
I shoved him, pretended offense.  But really?  That’s my favorite high school moment to date.

~~~

“What have I done?” I practically shouted into my mother’s anxious face.

On my daybed, she clasped her hands, her pointer fingers steeples. 

“It’s darling, sweetheart.  Really it is.”

She reached out to stroke a long, random piece.  It looked like an accident, a hairdresser’s lack of expertise.  I dragged my hands over the choppy darkness.

           
“Did you see this coming?  Did you?”

           
Mom stood and fluffed my pillows.  She glanced in the mirror over my dresser.  Used her pinkies to get lipstick out of the corners of her mouth.

           
“Tami and I both told you there was no telling what your hair would do short.  She said you’d have to blow dry, straighten, and use product to make your hair look like that picture.”

           
I threw my comb at the mirror.  “When?  When did she say that?”

           
Mom started to count on her fingers.  I crumpled to the floor.

           
“What am I going to do?  Tomorrow’s school. They’ll call me skate rat and boy.  If I wear my leather jacket, they’ll call me dyke on a bike.  Dyke!  I hate that word.”

           
Mom joined me on the rug.  Tossed my Converse high tops toward the closet.  She surrounded me with her legs, parentheses of love.  No, protection. Well, both.

           
“Oh, sweet pea,” she said.  “You’re gorgeous.  No one would ever think you’re a boy.”

           
She tweaked some wild, stick out hairs.  Tried to smooth them.  Epic failed.  I fell against her, my hands fists between us. 

           
“I lied, Mama,” I whispered against her neck.  She smelled familiar.  Fruity.  Flowery.  “I told myself I didn’t care what anyone thought, but that’s not true.”

           
Her breath warmed my ears.  Made them moist. 

           
“I want to be beautiful,” I said.  “More than anything.  I told everyone I wanted to be different, but I thought I’d look classy, elegant.  Like Audrey Hepburn.”

           
Mom’s breathing stuttered.  Is she crying too?  She turned my face toward the mirror beside my bed, pointed at us. 

           
“Baby, look who you’re talking to.  I’m addicted to my eyelash curler.  I won’t go to the grocery store without makeup on.  For crying out loud, I’m a Sephora Very Important Buyer.  I know.  I know what it’s like to want to be pretty, sweetie.  Me of all people?  I know.”

           
I laid my cheek against hers and our tears swam together.  I played with her rings.  Made them all face up.

           
“I kept thinking, even if I’m ugly, some little bald girl can be beautiful with a wig made from my hair.  But now?  That’s not enough.”  I turned to look Mom in the eye.  “Does that make me a bad person?”

           
She clasped her hands around my ribs and rocked me.  Shushed and there-thered me.

           
“I never thought I’d be ugly, Mama.  Never.”  My voice sounded as if I’d inhaled helium. 

           
A heaving suck of air escaped my mouth.  I felt my face start to implode.  She cupped my cheek and gazed at our reflection. 

           
“But you’re not, sweetheart.  There’s no—“     

           
I snorted snot.  “I know.  I mean--   My face is still pretty.  But you don’t know high schoolers.  They’re mean, Mama.  So, so mean.”  Flesh caught in zippers mean.

           

Mom rested her chin on my shoulder.  “I’ll pray for you tomorrow.  I promise.  I won’t stop.  Not for a second.”

           
I nodded and smiled.  Tried to anyway.  “I know you will.  Thanks.”

           
I stood.  Walked to my dresser.  Got a purple eyeliner out of the mug I made in eighth-grade art class.  I stepped in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door.  Wrote in cursive on the glass.  “I am beautiful.”  I made a kissy face, then I underlined the sentence.  Over and over.

Almost Christ-like

There was a day I was almost like Jesus.  ‘Cept Jerusalem was Morgantown, and the Roman guards were rednecks.

See, Jake and Wilbur lived in the same dorm, on the same floor as me, my sophomore year of college.  I'll cut to the chase and tell you right now, they were real sickos.  I may not speak the truth in love, but I promise you this, I speak the truth.

Some folks thought Jake and Wilbur were brothers ‘cause they both had buzz cuts the color of straw.  Jake was taller though.  His eyes reminded me of blue copier paper.  Wilbur 's face was best friends with Clearasil.  His eyes looked like puddles.

When Jake and Wilbur were bored and/or drunk, they'd drive around Morgantown, in search of roadkills.  Jake kept a coathanger in his truck at all times.  Whenever he or Wilbur saw a roadkill, whoever was driving would pull over, and they’d jump out.  Take the coathanger and a camera.  Wilbur would lift the roadkill as best he could with the coathanger.  Jake would snap a picture.   The corkboard on the door of their dorm room was covered with candid camera roadkill shots.  It was for this reason I renamed Jake and Wilbur.  I called Jake Warped and Wilbur Twisted.  The names stuck.  Pretty soon everyone in our dorm called ‘em Warped and Twisted.

One day, Warped and Twisted turned their attention to me.  I don't know what got into them.  Not sure if they did what they did because they liked me, or 'cause they didn't.

It was almost dark.  Seems like most bad stuff happens when it's dark or pert near.  I walked off the elevator and into the common area.  There they were.  Waiting.  For me.  They didn’t have on their usual attire--jeans and flannel shirts.  That day they both wore camo.  They had a weird look in their eyes too.  Like the zombie dancers in Michael Jackson's Thriller video.
           

Without a word, they positioned themselves on either side of me.  They each grabbed an arm, firmly but not gently.  They dragged me over to, then pushed me down on, a chair they'd placed nearby.  They used electrical tape to secure me to the chair.   Next they sprayed me in the face with whipped cream.  When I opened my eyes there were little white puffs on my eyelashes.  They shook bottles of beer and opened them with their teeth, a favorite party trick of theirs.  As soon as the beer started to spray, they aimed the bottles at me.  Doused me head to toe.  My flesh popped out in goosebumps as the cold beer drenched my clothes.
           

I decided early on stillness was my best strategy.  I didn't think I was in danger, per se.  My guess was they just wanted to do a real good job of humiliating me.  If I whooped and hollered for help, it would attract a crowd. Exactly what they wanted.  Definitely not what I wanted.
           

Warped knelt down and fished a string of Christmas lights out from under the sofa.  Twisted chuckled, but to me it sounded like a donkey with a carrot caught in its throat.  Warped walked around me.  Wrapped me in Christmas lights.  I pulled my lips in.  Looked at my knees.
           

Warped and Twisted shoved me across the floor of the common room.  I waited for the chair to get hung up on a crack in the floor or a snag in the carpet. I envisioned the chair falling forward.  There’d be a loud thunk as my head encountered the floor.  Surely my nose would shatter.  Blood would spray everywhere.
           

Warped and Twisted continued to inch me in the direction of their goal.  I peeked from under whipped cream lashes. Saw they were headed for an electrical outlet. My broken nose concern was replaced by the possibility that fluids and electricity might terminate me.  Snap!  Crackle! Pop!  Smells like chicken.

I held my breath as they jammed the plug into the socket.  Twinkle, twinkle!  Sparkle, sparkle!   I picked a spot on the ceiling and stared at it.  Would death be fast or slow?  Neither.  Something, God's hand maybe, spared me.
           

Warped and Twisted weren't finished.  They pushed me back across the common room.  Onto the elevator.  My fractured nose fear returned with each whiplash jerk of the chair.  The guys leaned down and in and grabbed the underside of the chair seat.  I smelled beer and chili dogs with raw onions on their breath.  I held mine.  Shut my eyes tight.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.
           

"Uh, uh, uh," came out of Warped.  On the third uh, they lifted me up and into the elevator.  They held me for a minute, a foot off the floor, then let go.  My teeth made a snapping sound.  Twisted kept his middle finger on the open door button.  Warped produced the roadkill coat hanger from his back pocket.  Handed it to Twisted.  He stepped backward off the elevator and reached into the cargo pocket of his pants.  Pulled out a camera.
           

Warped's eyes narrowed.  The right corner of his upper lip twitched.

"Lift her up," he said. 

           

Twisted hooked a belt loop of my Levis.  With both hands, he yanked up.  I thought the crotch seam of my jeans was gonna split me in two.
           

Warped grinned.  A rare exposure of his big, corn-colored teeth.  "Smile." 

           

I turned my head as far as I could.  Away from the camera.  Flash!  I blinked several times to get rid of the spots on my eyes.  Warped and Twisted guffawed--a choking donkey and a goose on coke.  They pointed under my chair.
           

"Looks like she wet herself," Warped said.
           

I wondered if I had, then realized it was beer dripping off me.
           

Warped stepped back on the elevator.  He leaned across me and hit all the buttons--G-9.  We rode up.  The doors opened at each floor.  People stared.  The doors closed. We went down.  Stopped at each floor.  People gawked.  The doors shut.  Then we did it again.

I was almost Christ-like that night.  Like him, I was abused.  Mocked.  Stared at.  Not rescued.  People looked away.  So they wouldn't have to be responsible. Some even laughed.  And me?  I remained silent.  Lamb led to the slaughter, no sound does it make, silent.

(Formerly known as Warped and Twisted)