Ash Eater Page 3

  ~ Psalm 69:4

  Chapter 6

  The Lure of Punk Rock

  Nothing, not all of the rocks thrown at me during my sixth grade year, could have ever prepared me for the torture-scape that is middle school. Whoever thought of a place like this obviously hates children. Why else would you stuff so many kids this age into a building for seven hours a day?

  I have to walk to school. Our house is just inside of the mile cut-off point that school buses won’t cater to. Sometimes the bus driver takes pity on me, but not all the time. Besides, sometimes I need that buffer of time between when I’m slammed into a locker and when I step into my lonely house that’s filled with people.

  Today I’m glad I decided to walk. Two weeks into seventh grade and I’m miserable. Last night I stopped at the pharmacy on the way home and picked out a hair color. I needed a change that I made myself. I selected purple and Mom said I could.

  Inside the house my hair looked black with purple highlights but in this morning sunshine my hair is a rich plum. My heart pounds as I drag my feet to school. I was ‘different’ yesterday, I wonder what they’ll make of this. Especially if I still don’t use Aquanet in the morning.

  Nate let me borrow his Sex Pistols tape and his U2 tape with all the old stuff, songs none of my peers ever heard of. I leave that U2 tape at home. It’s too precious to bring into the hostile environment of middle school.

  Before I walk past the shadow of our house, Nate’s friend Rob lets me borrow his jacket to complete my look. The jean jacket has a giant hole burned out of the back of it and the name of Rob’s favorite punk bands on the front and sleeves. Will the principal kick me out if I have Sex Pistols emblazoned on my arm? Probably. I look forward to it. Not really, but I want to look forward to it.

  I press play on my Walkman as I pick up my pace down the street.

  Johnny Rotten’s voice blasts through my earphones, singing about fascist regimes, and I think of my school. The lure of anger is so much stronger than the lure of darkness.

  The road I walk to school is an odd wasteland that runs through the outskirts of industrial parks, busy streets and bustling neighborhoods.

  One field across from an industrial park always stands out to me. There’s nothing in the field, hardly even a fence. The grass is almost as tall as me. It’s wild and overgrown. It’s my favorite part about the walk to school. I even turn off the music in reverent anticipation of what I’m about to see.

  The spiders were busy during the night, weaving huge webs on top of the grass, connecting all the stalks with a silver blanket. And the dew was busy at dawn stringing pearls along each strand of web.

  I stand at the edge of the sidewalk, teasing the edge of the grass with my toes. The sun rising over the field whispers to the cold pearls of dew, calling them heavenward with songs I hear on the precipice of my being. I strain my ears toward this song, climbing the giant stalks of grass until I learn how to stand on this fiercely strong blanket of webs. I bound toward the middle of the field. These springy webs help me run even faster. I’m dancing, alive again. The wonder I had lost now scoops me up as I twirl on this perfect surface. All around me, butterflies and faeries flutter together. They are beautiful and swift and pay no attention to me. I wish they could talk. Even in the midst of all this wonder I feel so lonely. I think of Bilbo Baggins, the lone hobbit among the dwarves, the odd man out. He freed all his companions from the spider webs. If only I had a sword. Or companies to free.

  I somersault and cartwheel, trying to absorb the warmth of the sun, the dampness of the dew. I smile, but feel so cold. Even in the midst of wonder, loneliness taunts me.

  A willowy tree woman approaches me. She’s as ethereal as the mist of pearls around us. Without a word, she reaches out and places a silver strand around my neck. I can hardly breathe. I want so much for her to speak to me. I smile, hoping she will. What would she say?

  I rub the strand of silver between my fingers as I look at it. A key dangles on the chain. Words of gratitude get trapped in my throat.

  Cold water crashes against my back.

  I’m back on the sidewalk, standing at the edge of the field. A car hit a puddle just right and sprayed half of the muddy puddle across the back of my shirt, the remnants of my jacket and my jeans.

  “Hey! You go to our school, right?”

  I look behind me at the group of boys. A couple of them are really hot. I try to figure out which one spoke to me and hope it’s the blond. “Yeah, I do.”

  A taller boy beside him elbows me in the shoulder blade. “What makes you think you can talk to my friend, huh? Did you dye your brain stupid when you dyed your hair stupid?”

  I shake off his comments and the pain in my shoulder. I’ll have to carry my backpack on the other shoulder for the rest of the day.

  Waiting for these boys to pass, I put my earphones back on and blast Johnny Rotten’s voice once more. Hot boys suck. Fascism feels more real than ever. I drag my feet the rest of the way to school.

  Hot boys are dumb too. Did I dye my brain stupid? What does that even mean?

  Between third and fourth period, some girls push me down the stairs. I land on top of another kid who’s just as unpopular as me. He dusts himself off and runs away before I even have time to apologize.

  Lunch is horrible. I can’t stomach food at this point. I find the emptiest bathroom so I can get sick. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m bulimic. It would totally ruin my school year to be that girl. Besides, bulimia is all about wanting to get skinny, right? I’m too skinny.

  By the end of seventh period I’m sure I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Not one single person has complimented my purple hair, but plenty have had their share of jabs in my direction. I dread the walk home.

  As I step out of the school, Gina approaches me. I met her over the summer at a party at my house. When I see the compassion on her face, I lower my defenses.

  “Do you want to walk home together?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind being seen with me.”

  “I’ve heard that people have been pretty mean to you today.” Gina shifts her backpack to her other shoulder and walks beside me.

  I roll my eyes. “There was no end to it.”

  “So, why did you dye your hair purple, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I wanted something different, unique. I was tired of looking like everyone else if I’m not like everyone else on the inside. You know what I mean?”

  She shrugs. “I guess. You certainly achieved the ‘different’ look.” She laughs in a way that makes me thankful for her friendship.

  A hand slams into the side of my face, mashing my temple into the chain link fence outside the school. A group of girls passes by, all of them laughing and kicking gravel at me. One throws a handful of sand in my face.

  “Yeah, that’s right!” another girl shouts. “That’s what we do to purple-headed freaks.”

  “Go on, you cowards!” Gina yells at them.

  My heart pounds like the wings of a wounded bird. Thoroughly shaken, I peel myself off the fence and dust off my cheek. I look at my shoes instead of at Gina. “You don’t have to walk next to me if you don’t want to. I mean, I—I understand if you don’t. I don’t want them hurting you.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to come through me if they want to touch you again. I can’t believe that girl! She was twice your size, if not bigger.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty cowardly of her,” I say loud enough that one of the girls in the group turns around again.

  Gina’s eyes grow as wide as sand dollars. “Don’t invite them, though.” She meets the other girl’s glance. “Yeah, go on, we don’t need any trouble!”

  I can’t imagine being as brave as Gina. She’s bigger than me, 5’7” compared to my measly five foot even, but it’s not height alone that gives her courage. She has something that I’m missing. I yearn for that something, whatever it is.

  As each school bus passes, we hear the taunt
s and jeers of our classmates. Someone shouts something about my mom and I want to faint, disappear, fade away. I hope Gina didn’t hear because I haven’t told her the truth about Mom and Abbie. Not yet.

  We run as fast as we can, fear of retaliation chasing us more than any kids are. By the time we reach the field I’m so out of breath that I’m ready to throw up.

  The sad afternoon sunlight coats the field in drab. A few insects dance over the high grass. The spider webs have turned from silver to gray. Gone is all the magic and beauty I saw that morning. I feel around my neck to see if the silver strand with the key is still there, to see if it was real rather than my own imagination. There’s nothing around my neck except the choking feeling of dejection.

  Dejection keeps me quiet the rest of the way home.

  Gina turns down the street toward her house before we reach my house. I forget to say thank you, but I don’t remember this until I crest the hill and she’s out of sight.

  Why does that simple gesture of gratitude elude me?

  Ryan, Nate, and Rob stand in front of the house, smoking and laughing. Their laughter stops as soon as they see me.

  “What happened to you?” Nate asks.

  I didn’t think it was that obvious. “It was an awful day. Do you have another one of those?” I point to his cigarette.

  “You look like you could smoke a whole pack in a sitting,” Rob says.

  “I just might.”

  “What happened to your face?” Ryan asks.

  I shiver the memory away. “It was the girls at school. A group of them pushed me into a fence on the way home.”

  “What?!” The indignation on Rob’s face is something I’ve never seen from anyone, at least not on my behalf. “Who did what to you? Show me the punks and I’ll slice them up!”

  “Really?” I don’t know whether I’m horrified or terribly grateful. In the last two hours two people stood up for me.

  But no one from my family.

  My brothers shuffle their feet. I wish they were the ones standing up for me.

  “Here’s a cigarette, sis,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  I stomp out one of his still burning cigarette butts as I light my own. I look up at Rob. “Thanks for sticking up for me. Did you want your jacket back?”

  “Naw, keep it. Parting gift for a terrible day.”

  Rob seems to have calmed down rather quickly. I’m glad he won’t be going to jail on my account. Although it sure feels good to have a defender against that string of taunts and bullies.

  Then again, there is tomorrow. How will I ever face tomorrow?

  The same way I faced today, I guess.

  The children of your servants will live in your presence…

  ~ Psalm 102:28

  Chapter 7

  The Cold and the Warmth

  It’s one of those cold New England days where the frigid wind sucks all the sun’s warmth from the clear sky.

  While Mom showers, I sneak out the front door to the porch. Ryan’s smoking. He doesn’t even ask, he just hands me a cigarette. I try to light it, but a blast of wind whips through my fingers blowing out the flame. Ryan uses his cigarette to light mine.

  I smoke quickly, packing Mom’s guitar and Sunday school bag into the trunk of the car. The ice cold cement stings my feet even through my Converse high tops.

  The whole ride to church we drive through the ghetto I usually see from a bus window. I stare out of the car at rundown houses, burned out houses, busted out windows. If I owned even one of those houses, I’d make it beautiful, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t let anyone rob that beauty or burn it down. I wish people didn’t do that sort of thing. I’d sit on the front porch with a pot of hot tea and talk to my neighbors. And I wouldn’t be afraid. There’s something magical about this neighborhood, something otherworldly, even while it has constant reminders of harsh realities. I wish I could stay here.

  Instead, I’m headed downtown, to a church where, while people worship upstairs, several homeless ladies drink coffee in the basement until they’re chased away by an usher.

  The wind tunnel that’s downtown lashes my hair around my face, stings me back into reality, and reminds me that my brothers are ignoring me again.

  I grab Mom’s guitar and wait until she’s ready to go to the basement where the kids have Sunday school.

  I stare at the ground as I cross the street. Patches of ice grip the flagstones in the sunlit churchyard. I shuffle around the ice right into Mom’s side. She’s standing in the churchyard and staring at Ryan.

  He’s sitting on some steps beside an unused entrance to the church, his arms around a woman in a puffy red coat and tattered corduroy pants. Her scraggly blonde hair spills over my brother’s arm. She’s weeping. He holds the woman’s hands, hands that are red and chapped.

  People stop and stare, then scurry off as if they’re embarrassed. Are they embarrassed like me? Embarrassed because they are too afraid of people to love them like that?

  Mom tugs at my arm. “Let’s let him do what he does best.”

  I sniff and wipe my hand across my cold, damp nose. “Okay. But who is that?”

  “Don’t ask. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Nate is already downstairs when I walk past Mom toward the nursery. I still don’t understand why anyone lets my brothers and me work here. Probably because we’re willing.

  There’s already one baby in the nursery. When the baby’s mother places him in my arms, I hold the baby close and think of Ryan. What could be keeping him out in that cold? And with that woman.

  I think back on her face. Gaunt. Addict. And how does Ryan know her?

  Worry batters my brain as the minutes tick past. The baby in my arms begins to cry. I step out of the nursery to walk him back and forth through the fellowship hall of the church basement.

  Sally is here—I can smell her even without seeing her. Wrapped in layers of rags, she passes me on her way toward the coffee pot.

  She stops to stare at the baby in my arms. “He’s so beautiful.” This is the first time she’s not hissing expletives at herself.

  My breath catches. I hardly know what to say to her. “How are you, Sally?”

  She nods her head shakily. “Yeah. Good.” She reaches out her hand toward me then pulls it back again to her side. She resumes her shuffle toward the coffee pot. She stamps her foot, the one wearing the boot. A ragged tennis shoe clings precariously to her other foot. Profanities spew from her lips.

  I step back, knocking into a chair. She looks back, and I pretend to stare at the maroon carpet that makes church’s basement look darker than it is. I pull the baby closer to my chest. The baby cries again.

  “He can sense when you’re afraid,” Sally says. She hobbles past, spilling coffee onto her tattered glove.

  “I wish I wasn’t afraid,” I whisper to the crying baby boy. I walk him in the other direction as Sally starts muttering swear words, louder than usual.

  Ryan’s here. He leads the woman with the puffy red coat to one of the tables in the fellowship hall. “You sit here. I’ll get you a coffee.”

  “Black, please.” She wipes her face with her sleeves.

  “Sure thing.”

  Before Ryan returns, an usher, a man in a finely pressed suit, walks up to the woman in the puffy red coat.

  The baby’s quieted enough that I hear the usher.

  “You can’t stay here.” He towers over her.

  “Excuse me,” Ryan calls from across the fellowship hall. “She’s with me.” He crosses the room with wide strides, Styrofoam cup in hand. “I got this.”

  The man looks at Ryan, shrugs and walks away. Is he embarrassed too? Embarrassed that he can’t love as superbly as this?

  Rocking the baby in my arms, I stare at Ryan, forgetting all the darkness that washes over me whenever I see him. Today I’m in awe. I want to love like this. I want to be brave. If even just once.

  His courage is like warmth that breaks through wint
er.

  I make my way to the bookcase, peeling my eyes from my brother, and this woman who obviously doesn’t need an audience. On my way, I pass a box of tissues. With baby on my hip, I walk the box, to the woman in the puffy red coat.

  “Thanks, sis.” Ryan takes the box from my hand and smiles.

  “This is your sister?” the woman asks through tears.

  “Yeah,” he replies, and for the first time in years I don’t hear shame in his affirmation, but pride. He hands tissues to the lady.

  I smile at him, then at the lady. “I’m sorry for whatever it is you’re going through.”

  The lady bunches up the tissues in her hands, staring at them. I can’t tell if she’s twenty-five or fifty for all the lines on her face. “Your brother’s a real good, good person.” A sob bursts from her throat. “You’re a good person too.”

  Ryan pulls his chair closer to hers and puts his arm over her shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re going be okay.”

  I duck away again toward the bookshelf, humming in the baby’s ear. Glancing over the spines, I remember what books I read. The Horse and His Boy, The Hobbit. There are a few I haven’t read, but want to. Till We Have Faces. That’ll have to be for another day. A day when I can think and know what thoughts are mine.

  Back in the nursery, Nate’s surrounded by a sea of toddlers, toddlers who are enthralled by his antics and buildings. The baby in my arms sleeps. I love his warmth against me. I tiptoe past a minefield of blocks and stuffed animals to the rocking chair. I sit. The baby stirs and fusses. I stand again, kiss his head and sway.

  So many times before, the darkness enveloped me in the basement of this church. It drowned me in an ocean of isolation and shaking. Not today.

  Today there is light. Streams of it. From the children, my brothers, and homeless women with sorrows I may never know.

  Today there is light and my head is crowned with a wreath of tiny flowers of joy. I’m a princess in a world of children, a world where love is infinitely possible. Somewhere in another room, older children sing about Jesus. My mother leads them. Her voice rings out with an angel’s clarity.