Clark’s son, Ronald,
came for a Christmas sleepover.
He was cute,
but too much older
to be bothered
spending time with me.
I was hyped up
for the holiday,
hoping for a two-wheeler.
On Christmas Eve,
Mom, acting weirder than usual,
insisted I go out
to wash a load of towels,
which was nuts
because the linen closet
was stuffed.
But she wasn’t in the mood
for backtalk or excuses
so out I went,
in the snow,
full pout and all.
I cleaned and folded the lot,
and trudged back home
only to find Ronald with Mom and Clark
locked in their bedroom.
“What?” Mom sounded annoyed
when I knocked.
“I have the clean towels
you said you needed.”
“Fine! Just leave them in the hall.”
What the hell, I thought.
I tried to force the doorknob,
but it wouldn’t budge.
I stomped downstairs
and waited in the living room.
A quarter hour later,
the three joined me.
Clark’s lips were firmly zipped
for once,
and Ronald said nothing.
Mom placated me by suggesting
we open one gift apiece
before going to bed.
Ronald opened his first,
a watch with a band
like woven silver.
If that’s what Mom got
her stepson, how much better
would my gift be?
Daddy’s gift
would come late,
like always,
but it would come.
Meanwhile, the only thing
under the tree
with my name on it
was a lone, small box,
and I tore into the wrapping
like I was digging for gold.
Instead I found
Eau de toilette.
I looked from Ronald’s watch
to my cheap bottle of scent
and understood perfectly
what it meant
to feel like
the stepchild.
I went to bed early
and took my sweet time
coming down the next morning.
Santa had nothing else
under that stupid tree
for me, which is why
my mouth fell open
when I found a Schwinn
parked in the living room.
“You better read the tag,”
said Mom, grinning,
“See who that bike is for.”
You can guess the rest.
Notebook
Clark is staring at me now, all the time. I don’t like it.
I’d tell Mom, but why bother? She’ll just tell me it’s nothing.
INTRUDER
“Come on!” I snapped,
impatient for the shower water
to warm. While I waited,
I checked my reflection in
the bathroom mirror.
That big-breasted girl
was a stranger.
I hated how my shirts hugged me,
how I jiggled when I walked,
how boys looked at me
like I was an ice-cream cone
with two scoops.
I climbed into the tub,
lathered quickly,
and stood beneath
the showerhead
eyes closed, enjoying
the feel of wet needles
pelting me. Then I froze.
“Who’s there?” I asked,
sure I’d heard the door open.
I looked through the steam,
and made out a shadow.
“Get out!” I shouted,
covering my breasts.
“GET. OUT!”
The shadow quickly retreated.
It was Clark, of course.
I switched off the water,
reached through the curtain
and fumbled for a towel.
Maybe Mom catching Clark
gawking at me
while I take a shower
is what it’s going to take.
Maybe then she’ll leave him.
Notebook
Clark’s taken to blocking my path
whenever I’m on my way up or down the stairs.
He forces me to squeeze by. “Oops,” he says, like I’m stupid.
Like I don’t know what he’s up to. I hate this man.
I’m getting good at avoiding being in the same room with my mother’s monster. Of course, she’s an expert at pretending not to notice. I’ve stopped expecting anything different.
GIN RUMMY
I loved the sparkle
Mom got in her eye
whenever she was about to win
a game of gin rummy.
What I didn’t like
was losing.
Mom would lay down
her winning hand with a flourish,
fanning the cards out
in front of her
like some show-off.
I’d slam my own useless
hand of cards
on the table, pouting.
“Aww,” Mom would say.
“Don’t be like that.”
Then she’d offer to play
one more hand.
“I’ll even let you win.”
I’d suck my teeth, for show.
“Come on,” she’d coo.
“Just one more hand.
Pretty please?”
The scripted scene
at its end, I’d cave.
“Fine. Just one.”
Mom would giggle
and hand me the deck to shuffle.
On cue, Clark would bellow
from the living room,
“I’m out of beer!”
“Check the fridge,”
Mom would say.
Clark would grunt.
“Well, it’s not doing me
any good in there, now is it?”
Mom would sigh and
leave the table.
“Be right back,” she’d say.
“When you’re done shuffling the deck,
go ahead and deal.”
Then she’d go and do
Clark’s bidding.
I’d be thinking,
You’re killing me.
Why can’t the bum
get his own beer?
Are his legs broken?
When Mom returned,
she’d mumble something about
Clark being a little grouchy
because he lost his job.
“Lost,” I said once.
“You mean getting up and quitting.
Like he did the last time,
and the time before that,
and the time—”
“Never mind,” Mom said.
And we went on playing,
but the sparkle in Mom’s eye
was long gone.
Game over.
Notebook
Clark is driving my mom batshit crazy. He won’t keep a job for more than a minute, w
hich means she’s got to work insane amounts of overtime to make up the difference, which is stressing her out, which is all the excuse she needs to dive into a bottle every chance she gets, even though she knows she’s an alcoholic. And what does he do? Runs up a tab at the corner liquor store! God, do something! Please!
ESCAPE
I took to running
to Prospect Park and back
after school,
anything to get away.
Sometimes, Peter would join me.
“Race you,” he’d say,
and every single time,
I’d beat him.
Guess I had more
chasing me
than he did.
REPORT CARD
Back from my run one evening,
I found Clark sprawled out on the sofa
per usual, doing lots of nothing
in front of the TV.
“Is Mom home yet?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“I’m watching the game.”
He didn’t even deign
to look up.
I checked the dining room,
the kitchen,
saved the bedroom for last.
I knocked but didn’t wait
for an invitation,
just stepped into
the dimly lit room.
Once my eyes adjusted,
I spotted an empty bottle
on Mom’s nightstand,
spotted the glass in her hand
before she tried to hide it
behind a stack of books.
“It’s not what you think,” she said.
Why do people always say that?
I glared at her, silent.
“I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
She slurred her words.
“I just need—”
“Something to relax,” I finished her sentence.
I’d heard it enough times.
“Yes. Well…” Mom’s voice trailed off.
“I need you to sign my report card,”
I said, turning it over.
I watched to see if her hand
had started to shake
the way it always did
at the tail end of
a drinking binge.
She scrambled for a pen—
Not yet, I thought. But soon—
and quickly scribbled her name,
so she could hurry back to
sneaking her booze.
She was acting like
everything was A-okay,
like she wasn’t halfway
to crazytown.
Again.
BROKEN
That night,
after Mom passed out drunk,
it happened.
I woke from a deep sleep
to find my legs parted
and Clark’s tongue exploring
where no tongue
had ever been.
I tried to kick and wrestle,
but he had me muscled into place.
He kept licking and nibbling me,
and I screamed.
God, close your eyes.
I don’t want you
seeing me like this.
Clark came up for air
long enough to laugh.
“Scream all you want,” he said.
“Ain’t nothing gonna wake
your mama.”
Just to make sure,
he clamped his hand
over my mouth,
and that’s when the tears came,
and I let them.
When he was good and done,
he got up, slung his robe
over his shoulder, and
sauntered from the room.
I gathered my strength and rose,
pushed all my furniture
up against the door,
and swore that bastard
would never
touch me again.
AFTERWARD
Breathe. Breathe,
I told myself. But I couldn’t.
I ripped off my pajamas
and put on clean ones,
but what I really wanted
was to peel away my skin
because it was on fire,
like every inch of me
that he had touched
was scalded, and
it wouldn’t stop throbbing.
Later that night,
I moved the furniture
from the door and snuck out
to the bathroom.
Three turns in the shower
and I discovered the limits of water.
There was no getting clean,
and I couldn’t, for the life of me,
write the pain away.
I couldn’t write about
any of it,
at all.
PROSPECT PARK SHOWDOWN
The next morning,
I slipped a butcher knife
from the kitchen drawer
and planted it underneath
my mattress, handle sticking out
far enough for easy reach.
Then I went on my usual run,
no jacket required.
I had enough rage to warm me.
When I was done tearing
through the park,
three gum-smacking girls
from the Sixth Street Gang
blocked my exit.
For years, I’d refused
to join a gang, even though
there was one on every street.
That made me fresh meat.
Anyone who dared stand alone
elicited fear and hate,
each siphoning strength
from the other.
The gang’s lead girl
drew a knife.
I caught the glint of a bottle
in the steel trash can.
I lunged for it, cracked the neck
against the can,
raised the jagged weapon high.
“Girls, you picked
the wrong damn day,”
I warned. But did they listen?
The three rushed me,
leaving a nasty six-inch gash
along one arm. The blood
ran freely, but I felt no pain.
I was still alive, for one thing,
and I wasn’t the only one
left hurting.
When Mom asked what happened,
I gave her the lie she wanted.
“I bumped into a door with
a rusty nail.”
Long ago, she’d let me know
she didn’t want to hear
anything scary about
her neighborhood of choice.
“We’d better get you
a tetanus shot,”
was all she said.
“Grab a towel,” snapped Clark.
“I don’t want you bleeding
in my car.” I withered him
with one look and said,
“Blood in your ratty old car
would be an improvement,”
which shut him up.
On the way to the hospital,
he switched on the radio.
“Talk that Talk”
by Jackie Wilson was playing.
I said, “How about you let
Jackie do all the talking?”
Mom looked at me funny,
since I’d never given Clark
much lip.
My scowl let her know
I was just getting started.
Notebook
Mom told me to start packing. Since Mr. Useless can’t seem to hold a job, we can’t afford this neighborhood anymore. She found a cheaper place in another part of Brooklyn. Perfect. So does the new address come with a less screwed-up family?
I keep thinking of Carol today, the strange way she left.
For a moment, I close my eyes, and I can see
the smirk Clark wore as Sis went out the door.
Did he touch her, too? Is that what she wants to tell me?
She’s not welcome here. Mom has certainly made that clear.
I haven’t seen my sister in months.
If Clark hurt Sis, she’d have gone straight to Mom and—
of course! Mom didn’t believe her, probably called her a liar.
Why else would she show Carol the door?
Mom only sees what she wants and—God knows why—
she wants Clark in her life, or in her bed, at least.
Did Carol and I both pay the price?
JUST
Just arrived on a new street.
Just another midterm move.
Just another blur.
WHAT TIME FORGOT
Schools
and street names
are gone.
Blame it on
the Mad Hatter,
or the madness
of my every day.
Either way,
the specifics
climbed a horse
and rode out of town
long ago.
Notebook
Gin bottles are turning up again.
And we’re off!
Next stop, paranoia.
Shit.
Still having trouble sleeping, and I refuse to cry.
I pack my tears away.
Tears belong to people who are weak,
something I swear to never be again.
THANK GOD FOR CHUBBY CHECKER
Music wafted through the window,
the lyrics stealing
straight into my heart.
“I’m just about at
the end of my rope.”
The August heat
added to the fire
in my bones,
and no amount of
ice cold pop
could cool
the seething inside me.
The annual block party
brought mournful strains of
Garnet Mimms
& The Enchanters’ “Cry Baby.”
I took one look at