The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe
The Chronicles of Narnia are my favorite books, or at least some of them, because I have been reading all of the Nancy Drew books this year. But the Narnia books are kind of the most meaningful, in a way, and me and my mom really love them. The first book is "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe," and they made a movie of it and the movie is on TV for the first time tonight. I have been waiting for months to see this movie. I can't wait to see them all walking around and talking and not just in my head, you know? It is so weird, that whole thing of book characters coming sort of alive on their own in a movie or whatever. Anyway, me and my mom have been looking forward to this movie for a long, long time. It really is a very big deal to us, even if you might not be all that interested in it, being a cartoon and everything. But trust me, it is. A big deal, that is. Even Nick knew we were for sure watching The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe when it came on TV, no matter what of his shows might be on at the same time.
So my aunt Sue calls to see if I want to spend the night this Friday, and I said okay. Sometimes I do that, go stay out there. She is pretty nice to me (she used bring me little swords from her bartender job when I was little, and she used to always bring me Zotz, too. And she drove a black VW with red interior that was really neat), and plus it is time away from Nick, always a popular destination these days of my life. So I had said yes, I would come out on Friday and spend the night. She lives out in the country, like about an hour away from our house. Sometimes my mom will drive me out there if I'm staying over, or Sue will pick me up after work or something. She works at Farmer Jack's now and it is not that far from our house. Especially compared to her house.
But then today I realized that this Friday is when The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is on. I have to watch that with my mom; we have plans. We've been planning on it for so long. And since we both love it so much, it is like the kind of thing where you really want to watch it together because you both get it, you know? And it was going to be our thing, too, where even Nick couldn't be the boss of it. No matter what of his shows were on, we for sure were going to get to watch our show. Not like when Willy Wonka was on and he wouldn't let us watch it because of Battlestar Gallactica. Which is on every week, by the way.
But now my mom is saying that Sue was really counting on me being there to watch the kids while she was at work because she has to work the night shift on Friday. She has two babies, my little cousins, and doesn't trust my uncle to be able to handle them very well while she's gone. So she likes the idea of me being there to make bottles or change diapers or whatever, I guess. Mostly they will be sleeping, anyway, so it's not that big of a deal. Sue gets home like by 6:00 a.m., I think. Or maybe 7:00. But still.
I can't believe she is acting like it's more important to still go stay at Sue and Roger's than it is to be here and watch our show together! I would think I was losing my mind if this kind of stuff wasn't happening a lot lately, her becoming some robot evil lady who looks like my mom. It just doesn't make any sense that she is acting like this is reasonable of her.
"We wouldn't want Sue to feel bad knowing you didn't want to stay out there, Amber. She already bought stuff just for you." Sue talked to my mom yesterday and said how she bought chocolate milk and ravioli for me, for staying out there, because she knows they're my favorites. She probably bought me some candy or something, too, but wouldn't tell my mom because I'm not allowed to have sugar. My mom won't even tell Nick about the chocolate milk, I know, because he will have a fit. Have I mentioned that they're retarded and that my stepdad is a dick?
"I know," I say. "But this is a once in a lifetime thing. She'll understand." I honestly think she would. Sue would get this one. Man, who wouldn't? Why is my mom being so weird?
Nick has come into the kitchen and is now standing next to my mom. I am sitting on the bench at the kitchen table. We have a stupid picnic bench for seating with a regular table because Nick can't leave well e-fucking-nough alone and he threw out our regular chairs and put this stupid bench in here so all us kids can cram in at the table. While he sits at the end of the table, taking up all the room he wants, including underneath the table. I realized recently that I always sit indian style these days, like even at school in the cafeteria. The habit is so ingrained because if you accidentally touch Nick's foot or leg or something under the table, not only are you hit with a wave of revulsion, but you will also be in huge trouble by Nick. He sits with his whole legs stretched out under the table, all the way down the center, so we are all doomed along the edges. And worse than that, he usually has on like a robe, or shorts, and his ugly flip-flops, so there is all this gross leg and gag-reflex feet that really can do you in to even think about when you're trying to eat. Or breathe, for that matter.
"Well, she is counting on you now, though." My mom has the lines going across her forehead. I hate those lines. Sometimes I take my finger and try to smooth them out. They show up when she is worried or something, and that is not a good sign. It can lead to a next step of tears or screams, depending. On what, I can't always tell. "I know it's a bummer, honey, but we'll both still be watching it. I'll call you as soon as it's over."
I am studying the dirty press-on tiles and dirt in the patterns of our floor. I can see Nick's disgusting feet tormenting me from my peripheral vision. They are cross now, one foot flat and the other one resting on the toe of his retarded flip-flop (it is November in Michigan, by the way), crossed over in his pouncing pose. If I look up, I know I will see one of two things out of him: either he is cleaning his fingernails, back and chest all puffed up with power and rage, eyes focusing in he-ain't-fooling-anybody concentration on the nail cleaning; or two, his beady little fucker eyes are starting a hole through my head, and his face has a sneer that is weirdly almost a smile, because the muscles of his face get kind of contorted by the hate for me when he lets it concentrate like this. Either way, he will just have on his stupid shorts that are too small, anyway, and his ugly hairy chest (not to mention hairy-mole arm) hanging out, and his face is for sure like beet color from the rage. One day, him and my principal (nothing "pal" about him, trust me), both their heads are going to just explode like giant, gluttonous ticks, from all the pressure of the blood spurting out. Fucking pressure cooker. Nick. I hate him so much. I am not going to cry. Fuck, I feel it. I hate him so much. I do not want to cry. Not in front of him. Shit, shit shit. This sucks so bad. God, I hate him.
"It's not the same," I tell my mom, not looking up. I am concentrating all my effort on reversing the gravitational force of my head so it will suck the tears back in from where they are curiously peek out over the edges of my eyes. My cheeks are so hot, but my hands have gotten freezing cold.
"Watch-how-you-talk-to-your-mother." Nick spits sentences at me like they are disgusting little bits of crap he has to get off his tongue. Always little strings of bullets, and you can tell there is an explosion right behind them, fueling the barrage. I have seen the explosions. They are almost always at me, and then my little sister just hates it wonders why I can't do what he wants so he won't explode like that. She doesn't understand that it's different for me, that there is no thing he wants out of me that would make him stop hating me. I have tried it all; trust me.
* * *
My sister is fighting with her mom in the kitchen. I do not think she should be sassing back to her, which is what it sounds like she is doing, because now my dad is getting involved in it. Why can't she just get along with him?
She is actually my step sister, but that is okay. We come here on the weekends, my brother and me, and it only makes everything worse when my dad gets in one of his moods. It is much better not to make him mad. He gets made enough as it is, and provoking him is just making it worse for everybody. Plus, I don't want him turning it on me. He is a violent man, and it is unpredictable how far he will go with it. It has been a few weeks since he has hit my brother and me when we were her, and I would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
I am working on an anatomical diagram of Tyrannosaurus Rex. My mother bought me a coloring book of these diagrams last time we were at Cranbrook (museum of natural science). They aren't completely factual, of course; nobody really knows what the inner workings of dinosaurs looked like, but they are scientific approximations based on archaeological and paleological findings, combined with veterinary and biological sciences. So, not perfect, which is frustrating, but at least better than the Disney coloring book on dinosaurs that Barb bought me for Christmas last year. Barb is my stepmother, Amber's mother. She is nice most of the time, but not necessarily the sharpest Crayola in the box. But she is a good cook and she tucks us in at night, which is a nice luxury, I have found. My mother does not baby us. She expects us to be self-sufficient, because we are capable of it. I cannot argue with that logic, but it is nevertheless nice to served homemade pancakes for breakfast on occasion, or have my hair brushed out of my face as I'm falling asleep.
Where is my persimmon colored crayon? I hope my brother hasn't been using my crayons. All he really needs are one brown and one yellow crayon, because monkeys are the only thing he sees. Ah, there it is; I'd inadvertently placed it after pink instead of before. I honestly do no understand how most children get any coloring done without having their colors alphabetized.
* * *
"All right, all right," my mom says, the worry lines I hate springing to life on her forehead. She frowns and puts her hands to her temples. She is wearing an Old Orchard Beach, Maine t-shirt and Levi's. They went there on their honeymoon, to Old Orchard Beach. They drove there in Nick's stupid MG that I used to think was cool. It was orange and only had two seats, but he used to let us sit in the little space behind the seats and give us rides when they were dating and we still lived at my Grandpa's. Why didn't anyone warn me? He used to wear a little beret driving cap or whatever in the MG. It's gone now, though. The MG; I don't know about that stupid hat.
Nick glares at my mom without blinking, all mock surprise. "You're gone let her get away with that?" The words don't have hyphens between them when he talks to my mom, but right now they are still closer together than usual. His head is vibrating up and down but nobody notices this but me. Nobody notices jack shit around here except me.
My dad always says to me, "Well, if things ever get really bad, just let me know, pal." He says this after I tell him how bad it is living here with Nick. I don't know what I have to say that he will deem 'really bad,' though. Does he even listen when I tell him this stuff? I already know the answer to that. The answer is no, he doesn't, or tries his best not to, anyway. His face will get that glazed over look, and he will stare at the football game on TV, or out over the water if we are on the boat. And then when I am done saying how Nick lies to get me in trouble, or how he yells at me, or how I am grounded constantly, my dad will finally look at me and engage so the glazed over face gets back to normal, and say, "Well pal, if it ever gets really bad, you just make sure you let me know; okay?" And what do I say to that, you know? I feel insane. A couple of times I've pushed it after that and told him yeah, it is that bad, Dad. It really is that bad. I can't take it. He beats up my stepbrothers and I'm afraid of him constantly. He hates me, seriously. And then my dad has said, looking a little reproving at me, "Well, I sure don't think your mother would let anything that bad happen, pal. She's a pretty good mom, you know. " Then he smiled and said, "But if it ever gets really bad, you make sure you let me know; okay?"
Do I have any help out there or not? I can't figure it out. I have tried to get the help, but it seems like I am doing it wrong or overexaggerating what my life is. Am I really just being a spoiled little rebellious brat about all this? If I am, why can't I tell, and why can't I turn it off then and get to reality for myself? If I was all an act, like they say, wouldn't I know it? Doesn't there have to be a person to put on the act? Where is that version of me? Because the act is like a horror movie, and I'd really like to get out of it.
"Amber, watch your mouth," my mom says. She says it to appease her monster of a husband, and avoids my eyes because we both know that my mouth has not been out of order. I didn't even say anything with a slight attitude or anything. But she is going along with him like I did. I am doomed here. Please, turn the act off, me. If there's a life without this, please let me into it.
I don't say anything, because now the stage has been set full of boobytraps. Anything I say from this point on will be worthy of a lashing from Nick. Any look, in fact, will be construed as rebellious, full of attitude, confrontational, snotty, you name it. I am stuck in the frozen realm of impossibility for anything to turn out all right. Even my silence is going to get me in trouble. Disrespectful.
"Look-at-your-mother-when-she's-speaking-to-you!"
I lift my head and look at my mom. She is foggy through the smoke seeping out of Nick's every pore. My mom is scared now, because she can tell he's going to lose it, and then she won't be able to pretend very successfully that everything is fine. Now it is him that threatens her bubble of delusional reality.
"All right, Nick. Settle down." Before he has time to freak on her, she says to me: "Sue already said you can watch the show out there. I know it's not exactly the same as we planned, but you already made a commitment to Sue." I don't recall anything as big as a commitment; it was a plan made under false pretenses. I didn't have all the information I needed. Why is this turning into such a big deal? Am I crazy? "Roger knows about it and will watch TV in his room if he wants to watch something else." She softens now, thinking it's all been decided. Again. "Okay? The important thing is that we'll get to see The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe on TV! It's so exciting, and we'll talk about it right afterward. Okay, honey?"
Whatever, I think. I take up my staredown with the floor again. "Whatever."
Nick snaps and I feel it before I see or hear it, like an A bomb or whatever they're called. But mine is an asshole bomb, ha ha. The air in the kitchen is displaced somehow by the force of his hate and explosion and I lose a little breath.
"What-did-we-tell-you-about-that-mouth!" he screams. I feel spit spray on my knees because I am wearing my pajamas already. "One-more-word-and-you're-not-going-anywhere-this-weekend!" He is hysterical with power.
I allow myself the luxury of attitude in my tone now and say the forbidden one more word, plus change. "Fine," I say to the floor, "I'll stay home then."
Now I look up and see my stepdad mentally tripping over his own loss of control, and my mom pissed off that she has to now finally address his retardedness. "Nick, I'll handle this." She only gets bossy with him when she has to, which for her is when he is clearly incompetent to take the reigns without running the buggy into a ditch.
He glares one good one at her, then a good one at me, and stomps off to the living room with his nostrils flared to nickel size to accommodate all that smoke. He is such a dick. How can she sleep with him? I can't comprehend what she has turned into. Now that he has stomped away and isn't in the room with us, my hot face won't hold back the sadness anymore. Tears fill up my eyes and I look to my mom for help. This can't be my life.
"I know," she says quietly and with exasperation, "he shouldn't have said that." My mom sits down across from me at the table. "He's just got a bad temper. Don't cry."
"I don't want to miss The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardobe."
"You won't."
"But we were supposed to watch it together." A few sobs escape and I worry that Nick will hear them.
My mom sighs and looks genuinely sad. "I know, honey. I wanted that, too. But we just can't always control everything, and you need to be out at Sue's this Friday.
* * * * * * * * * *
My green velour shirt looks the best on me. I wear it to roller skating, usually. It is getting a couple of snag on it, but hopefully they don't show too much at the rink. It's not that bright in there.
I just want to go to sleep, to tell you the truth, but there's no where I can get comfortable enough to actually sleep. Maybe if it were Thanksgiving and we were at my Grandpa's, then I could go on the coat bed in my grandpa's room and climb under all the coats. Then I could easily relax and fall asleep. I would be smelling turkey cooking in the Nesco, too. And I would be able to hear the talking of all the people in the house, conversations from the living, and from around the table in the dining room where it would be filled with pies by now. Or from my grandpa and a few people cleaning up stuff in the kitchen and eating more leftovers. Warm under the pile of coats. The coats would still have a smell of the outside on them. Sometimes, even a pocket a cold air would still be under there and waft out of sleeve or something when you shift around. Then, later on, I would wake up when someone had turned on the light and rooted around to find their coat and found me under there sleeping. Sometimes, though, their coats might be close to the top, and I would lay under there in the darkness, seeing the light on through the cracks, and hear them get their coats and put them on and talk about the drive home or being full or how much leftovers they were taking with them, and they would never even know I was under there, and they would put on their coats and turn out the bedroom light again and leave. All the time, me under there. Not existing to them.
There is nowhere in our stupid house that is comfortable. I'm not allowed to shut my bedroom door, so even if my bedroom was cozy, it would be out. I could get my red silky comforter and put on my fuzzy purple robe and climb into the closet, but I'd still be in this house so how could I actually be relaxed and comfortable? Couldn't. Because this is Nick's house, my stepdad. It used to belong more to my grandpa and me, but those days are long gone.
I don't really like these jeans I'm wearing tonight. I don't know why I keep wearing them. I guess because they make my waist look sort of small. And my butt looks okay. But I hate the bottoms of them, because they are very big, but not exactly bell bottoms; just sort of loose and very long. And they don't have a hem really, and they are too big around to really cuff properly. They pose a little risk when skating, but actually look best with skates on because they hang down good. My legs look sort of long. That way, anyway, with the skates on. Roller skates are really tall, in case you don't know.
I wonder if I should wear my silver belt. I sort of like how it looks at the rink when it's pretty dark in there and some of the lights sort of reflect off of it. But somehow it makes the fact of the non-matching of the jeans and shirt worse to me. Because my velour shirt is like emerald green, and these stupid jeans that I hate are light blue. It doesn't really match. Actually, now that I'm looking at it, I guess this shirt is actually more of a terry cloth. Weird. Not much like a washcloth or anything, but if you look close, there are the little loops of it. They are just smaller and the thread is a little silky or shiny or something, so it winds up looking more like velour. I look pretty good in this shirt, as long as I am standing up. It has a band around the waist, which is always a good look for me because I have a fat stomach that can hang over if you look at it the right way, and a v-neck. The sleeves are super short, which I don't know if I like, but I guess are okay. I wish these snags weren't in here.
Theresa puts coverstick on her lips like lipstick. I never, ever would have thought of doing such a thing. It totally washes them out, her lips, but somehow I guess it does make a certain look, especially with extra thick eyeliner on. I don't think I'll try it yet, though. I will stick to my Kissing Potion that Maryellen gave me. It's strawberry flavored, and very shiny. I think it is good for roller skating. Except when my hair blows in my face and gets stuck to my lips. That part bugs me.
I wonder if I will have to stand in line with Danny Harris tonight. I hadn't even thought that far ahead. There is always a long line to get in. It goes all along in front of the building (which makes it really suck if it's raining out that night). Once you get to the doors, the line bunches up into a clump inside the vestibule part until you get to the window where you pay. I can't image waiting in line all that time with Danny Harris. Will people think we are together? What would we talk about? At least in the car, I'm sure he will have the stereo jamming, so that won't be a problem really. I actually can't really picture Danny Harris waiting in line, anyway. I don't think I've ever seen that. Him or Jim Keilor or any of their group. Maybe he will just drop me off. I don't know.
I hope my mom will give me some money. I want to get a pack of cigarettes tonight. I have enough to get in and for my skates, but I need a little extra. Sometimes she will give me money for a snack or something at the rink. Probably will just depend if I can get her alone without Nick around before I leave. Oh yeah, that's right--she doesn't know I'm gong skating. Shit. Well, maybe I'll tell her Theresa's mom is taking us to the mall or something. Too much to think about right now. I have to get my outfit figured out first.
* * * * *
My cramps are so bad that I just threw up. I have never known pain like this. It is inside every thinking molecule of my being. I feel like every cell I have is throwing up right now. My stomach and back are flames of thick, smoldering, shooting, knocking, vomiting, throbbing pain that is way more than I am. It has eaten me already and lives on in my form. Take my mind, please.
My mom finally gave me two more Tylenol. She doesn't understand what a joke two more Tylenol will be, but I will take them, anyway. She gave me two over an hour ago and trust me, they do not make a dent in the cramps.
So my aunt Sue calls to see if I want to spend the night this Friday, and I said okay. Sometimes I do that, go stay out there. She is pretty nice to me (she used bring me little swords from her bartender job when I was little, and she used to always bring me Zotz, too. And she drove a black VW with red interior that was really neat), and plus it is time away from Nick, always a popular destination these days of my life. So I had said yes, I would come out on Friday and spend the night. She lives out in the country, like about an hour away from our house. Sometimes my mom will drive me out there if I'm staying over, or Sue will pick me up after work or something. She works at Farmer Jack's now and it is not that far from our house. Especially compared to her house.
But then today I realized that this Friday is when The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe is on. I have to watch that with my mom; we have plans. We've been planning on it for so long. And since we both love it so much, it is like the kind of thing where you really want to watch it together because you both get it, you know? And it was going to be our thing, too, where even Nick couldn't be the boss of it. No matter what of his shows were on, we for sure were going to get to watch our show. Not like when Willy Wonka was on and he wouldn't let us watch it because of Battlestar Gallactica. Which is on every week, by the way.
But now my mom is saying that Sue was really counting on me being there to watch the kids while she was at work because she has to work the night shift on Friday. She has two babies, my little cousins, and doesn't trust my uncle to be able to handle them very well while she's gone. So she likes the idea of me being there to make bottles or change diapers or whatever, I guess. Mostly they will be sleeping, anyway, so it's not that big of a deal. Sue gets home like by 6:00 a.m., I think. Or maybe 7:00. But still.
I can't believe she is acting like it's more important to still go stay at Sue and Roger's than it is to be here and watch our show together! I would think I was losing my mind if this kind of stuff wasn't happening a lot lately, her becoming some robot evil lady who looks like my mom. It just doesn't make any sense that she is acting like this is reasonable of her.
"We wouldn't want Sue to feel bad knowing you didn't want to stay out there, Amber. She already bought stuff just for you." Sue talked to my mom yesterday and said how she bought chocolate milk and ravioli for me, for staying out there, because she knows they're my favorites. She probably bought me some candy or something, too, but wouldn't tell my mom because I'm not allowed to have sugar. My mom won't even tell Nick about the chocolate milk, I know, because he will have a fit. Have I mentioned that they're retarded and that my stepdad is a dick?
"I know," I say. "But this is a once in a lifetime thing. She'll understand." I honestly think she would. Sue would get this one. Man, who wouldn't? Why is my mom being so weird?
Nick has come into the kitchen and is now standing next to my mom. I am sitting on the bench at the kitchen table. We have a stupid picnic bench for seating with a regular table because Nick can't leave well e-fucking-nough alone and he threw out our regular chairs and put this stupid bench in here so all us kids can cram in at the table. While he sits at the end of the table, taking up all the room he wants, including underneath the table. I realized recently that I always sit indian style these days, like even at school in the cafeteria. The habit is so ingrained because if you accidentally touch Nick's foot or leg or something under the table, not only are you hit with a wave of revulsion, but you will also be in huge trouble by Nick. He sits with his whole legs stretched out under the table, all the way down the center, so we are all doomed along the edges. And worse than that, he usually has on like a robe, or shorts, and his ugly flip-flops, so there is all this gross leg and gag-reflex feet that really can do you in to even think about when you're trying to eat. Or breathe, for that matter.
"Well, she is counting on you now, though." My mom has the lines going across her forehead. I hate those lines. Sometimes I take my finger and try to smooth them out. They show up when she is worried or something, and that is not a good sign. It can lead to a next step of tears or screams, depending. On what, I can't always tell. "I know it's a bummer, honey, but we'll both still be watching it. I'll call you as soon as it's over."
I am studying the dirty press-on tiles and dirt in the patterns of our floor. I can see Nick's disgusting feet tormenting me from my peripheral vision. They are cross now, one foot flat and the other one resting on the toe of his retarded flip-flop (it is November in Michigan, by the way), crossed over in his pouncing pose. If I look up, I know I will see one of two things out of him: either he is cleaning his fingernails, back and chest all puffed up with power and rage, eyes focusing in he-ain't-fooling-anybody concentration on the nail cleaning; or two, his beady little fucker eyes are starting a hole through my head, and his face has a sneer that is weirdly almost a smile, because the muscles of his face get kind of contorted by the hate for me when he lets it concentrate like this. Either way, he will just have on his stupid shorts that are too small, anyway, and his ugly hairy chest (not to mention hairy-mole arm) hanging out, and his face is for sure like beet color from the rage. One day, him and my principal (nothing "pal" about him, trust me), both their heads are going to just explode like giant, gluttonous ticks, from all the pressure of the blood spurting out. Fucking pressure cooker. Nick. I hate him so much. I am not going to cry. Fuck, I feel it. I hate him so much. I do not want to cry. Not in front of him. Shit, shit shit. This sucks so bad. God, I hate him.
"It's not the same," I tell my mom, not looking up. I am concentrating all my effort on reversing the gravitational force of my head so it will suck the tears back in from where they are curiously peek out over the edges of my eyes. My cheeks are so hot, but my hands have gotten freezing cold.
"Watch-how-you-talk-to-your-mother." Nick spits sentences at me like they are disgusting little bits of crap he has to get off his tongue. Always little strings of bullets, and you can tell there is an explosion right behind them, fueling the barrage. I have seen the explosions. They are almost always at me, and then my little sister just hates it wonders why I can't do what he wants so he won't explode like that. She doesn't understand that it's different for me, that there is no thing he wants out of me that would make him stop hating me. I have tried it all; trust me.
* * *
My sister is fighting with her mom in the kitchen. I do not think she should be sassing back to her, which is what it sounds like she is doing, because now my dad is getting involved in it. Why can't she just get along with him?
She is actually my step sister, but that is okay. We come here on the weekends, my brother and me, and it only makes everything worse when my dad gets in one of his moods. It is much better not to make him mad. He gets made enough as it is, and provoking him is just making it worse for everybody. Plus, I don't want him turning it on me. He is a violent man, and it is unpredictable how far he will go with it. It has been a few weeks since he has hit my brother and me when we were her, and I would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
I am working on an anatomical diagram of Tyrannosaurus Rex. My mother bought me a coloring book of these diagrams last time we were at Cranbrook (museum of natural science). They aren't completely factual, of course; nobody really knows what the inner workings of dinosaurs looked like, but they are scientific approximations based on archaeological and paleological findings, combined with veterinary and biological sciences. So, not perfect, which is frustrating, but at least better than the Disney coloring book on dinosaurs that Barb bought me for Christmas last year. Barb is my stepmother, Amber's mother. She is nice most of the time, but not necessarily the sharpest Crayola in the box. But she is a good cook and she tucks us in at night, which is a nice luxury, I have found. My mother does not baby us. She expects us to be self-sufficient, because we are capable of it. I cannot argue with that logic, but it is nevertheless nice to served homemade pancakes for breakfast on occasion, or have my hair brushed out of my face as I'm falling asleep.
Where is my persimmon colored crayon? I hope my brother hasn't been using my crayons. All he really needs are one brown and one yellow crayon, because monkeys are the only thing he sees. Ah, there it is; I'd inadvertently placed it after pink instead of before. I honestly do no understand how most children get any coloring done without having their colors alphabetized.
* * *
"All right, all right," my mom says, the worry lines I hate springing to life on her forehead. She frowns and puts her hands to her temples. She is wearing an Old Orchard Beach, Maine t-shirt and Levi's. They went there on their honeymoon, to Old Orchard Beach. They drove there in Nick's stupid MG that I used to think was cool. It was orange and only had two seats, but he used to let us sit in the little space behind the seats and give us rides when they were dating and we still lived at my Grandpa's. Why didn't anyone warn me? He used to wear a little beret driving cap or whatever in the MG. It's gone now, though. The MG; I don't know about that stupid hat.
Nick glares at my mom without blinking, all mock surprise. "You're gone let her get away with that?" The words don't have hyphens between them when he talks to my mom, but right now they are still closer together than usual. His head is vibrating up and down but nobody notices this but me. Nobody notices jack shit around here except me.
My dad always says to me, "Well, if things ever get really bad, just let me know, pal." He says this after I tell him how bad it is living here with Nick. I don't know what I have to say that he will deem 'really bad,' though. Does he even listen when I tell him this stuff? I already know the answer to that. The answer is no, he doesn't, or tries his best not to, anyway. His face will get that glazed over look, and he will stare at the football game on TV, or out over the water if we are on the boat. And then when I am done saying how Nick lies to get me in trouble, or how he yells at me, or how I am grounded constantly, my dad will finally look at me and engage so the glazed over face gets back to normal, and say, "Well pal, if it ever gets really bad, you just make sure you let me know; okay?" And what do I say to that, you know? I feel insane. A couple of times I've pushed it after that and told him yeah, it is that bad, Dad. It really is that bad. I can't take it. He beats up my stepbrothers and I'm afraid of him constantly. He hates me, seriously. And then my dad has said, looking a little reproving at me, "Well, I sure don't think your mother would let anything that bad happen, pal. She's a pretty good mom, you know. " Then he smiled and said, "But if it ever gets really bad, you make sure you let me know; okay?"
Do I have any help out there or not? I can't figure it out. I have tried to get the help, but it seems like I am doing it wrong or overexaggerating what my life is. Am I really just being a spoiled little rebellious brat about all this? If I am, why can't I tell, and why can't I turn it off then and get to reality for myself? If I was all an act, like they say, wouldn't I know it? Doesn't there have to be a person to put on the act? Where is that version of me? Because the act is like a horror movie, and I'd really like to get out of it.
"Amber, watch your mouth," my mom says. She says it to appease her monster of a husband, and avoids my eyes because we both know that my mouth has not been out of order. I didn't even say anything with a slight attitude or anything. But she is going along with him like I did. I am doomed here. Please, turn the act off, me. If there's a life without this, please let me into it.
I don't say anything, because now the stage has been set full of boobytraps. Anything I say from this point on will be worthy of a lashing from Nick. Any look, in fact, will be construed as rebellious, full of attitude, confrontational, snotty, you name it. I am stuck in the frozen realm of impossibility for anything to turn out all right. Even my silence is going to get me in trouble. Disrespectful.
"Look-at-your-mother-when-she's-speaking-to-you!"
I lift my head and look at my mom. She is foggy through the smoke seeping out of Nick's every pore. My mom is scared now, because she can tell he's going to lose it, and then she won't be able to pretend very successfully that everything is fine. Now it is him that threatens her bubble of delusional reality.
"All right, Nick. Settle down." Before he has time to freak on her, she says to me: "Sue already said you can watch the show out there. I know it's not exactly the same as we planned, but you already made a commitment to Sue." I don't recall anything as big as a commitment; it was a plan made under false pretenses. I didn't have all the information I needed. Why is this turning into such a big deal? Am I crazy? "Roger knows about it and will watch TV in his room if he wants to watch something else." She softens now, thinking it's all been decided. Again. "Okay? The important thing is that we'll get to see The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe on TV! It's so exciting, and we'll talk about it right afterward. Okay, honey?"
Whatever, I think. I take up my staredown with the floor again. "Whatever."
Nick snaps and I feel it before I see or hear it, like an A bomb or whatever they're called. But mine is an asshole bomb, ha ha. The air in the kitchen is displaced somehow by the force of his hate and explosion and I lose a little breath.
"What-did-we-tell-you-about-that-mouth!" he screams. I feel spit spray on my knees because I am wearing my pajamas already. "One-more-word-and-you're-not-going-anywhere-this-weekend!" He is hysterical with power.
I allow myself the luxury of attitude in my tone now and say the forbidden one more word, plus change. "Fine," I say to the floor, "I'll stay home then."
Now I look up and see my stepdad mentally tripping over his own loss of control, and my mom pissed off that she has to now finally address his retardedness. "Nick, I'll handle this." She only gets bossy with him when she has to, which for her is when he is clearly incompetent to take the reigns without running the buggy into a ditch.
He glares one good one at her, then a good one at me, and stomps off to the living room with his nostrils flared to nickel size to accommodate all that smoke. He is such a dick. How can she sleep with him? I can't comprehend what she has turned into. Now that he has stomped away and isn't in the room with us, my hot face won't hold back the sadness anymore. Tears fill up my eyes and I look to my mom for help. This can't be my life.
"I know," she says quietly and with exasperation, "he shouldn't have said that." My mom sits down across from me at the table. "He's just got a bad temper. Don't cry."
"I don't want to miss The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardobe."
"You won't."
"But we were supposed to watch it together." A few sobs escape and I worry that Nick will hear them.
My mom sighs and looks genuinely sad. "I know, honey. I wanted that, too. But we just can't always control everything, and you need to be out at Sue's this Friday.
* * * * * * * * * *
My green velour shirt looks the best on me. I wear it to roller skating, usually. It is getting a couple of snag on it, but hopefully they don't show too much at the rink. It's not that bright in there.
I just want to go to sleep, to tell you the truth, but there's no where I can get comfortable enough to actually sleep. Maybe if it were Thanksgiving and we were at my Grandpa's, then I could go on the coat bed in my grandpa's room and climb under all the coats. Then I could easily relax and fall asleep. I would be smelling turkey cooking in the Nesco, too. And I would be able to hear the talking of all the people in the house, conversations from the living, and from around the table in the dining room where it would be filled with pies by now. Or from my grandpa and a few people cleaning up stuff in the kitchen and eating more leftovers. Warm under the pile of coats. The coats would still have a smell of the outside on them. Sometimes, even a pocket a cold air would still be under there and waft out of sleeve or something when you shift around. Then, later on, I would wake up when someone had turned on the light and rooted around to find their coat and found me under there sleeping. Sometimes, though, their coats might be close to the top, and I would lay under there in the darkness, seeing the light on through the cracks, and hear them get their coats and put them on and talk about the drive home or being full or how much leftovers they were taking with them, and they would never even know I was under there, and they would put on their coats and turn out the bedroom light again and leave. All the time, me under there. Not existing to them.
There is nowhere in our stupid house that is comfortable. I'm not allowed to shut my bedroom door, so even if my bedroom was cozy, it would be out. I could get my red silky comforter and put on my fuzzy purple robe and climb into the closet, but I'd still be in this house so how could I actually be relaxed and comfortable? Couldn't. Because this is Nick's house, my stepdad. It used to belong more to my grandpa and me, but those days are long gone.
I don't really like these jeans I'm wearing tonight. I don't know why I keep wearing them. I guess because they make my waist look sort of small. And my butt looks okay. But I hate the bottoms of them, because they are very big, but not exactly bell bottoms; just sort of loose and very long. And they don't have a hem really, and they are too big around to really cuff properly. They pose a little risk when skating, but actually look best with skates on because they hang down good. My legs look sort of long. That way, anyway, with the skates on. Roller skates are really tall, in case you don't know.
I wonder if I should wear my silver belt. I sort of like how it looks at the rink when it's pretty dark in there and some of the lights sort of reflect off of it. But somehow it makes the fact of the non-matching of the jeans and shirt worse to me. Because my velour shirt is like emerald green, and these stupid jeans that I hate are light blue. It doesn't really match. Actually, now that I'm looking at it, I guess this shirt is actually more of a terry cloth. Weird. Not much like a washcloth or anything, but if you look close, there are the little loops of it. They are just smaller and the thread is a little silky or shiny or something, so it winds up looking more like velour. I look pretty good in this shirt, as long as I am standing up. It has a band around the waist, which is always a good look for me because I have a fat stomach that can hang over if you look at it the right way, and a v-neck. The sleeves are super short, which I don't know if I like, but I guess are okay. I wish these snags weren't in here.
Theresa puts coverstick on her lips like lipstick. I never, ever would have thought of doing such a thing. It totally washes them out, her lips, but somehow I guess it does make a certain look, especially with extra thick eyeliner on. I don't think I'll try it yet, though. I will stick to my Kissing Potion that Maryellen gave me. It's strawberry flavored, and very shiny. I think it is good for roller skating. Except when my hair blows in my face and gets stuck to my lips. That part bugs me.
I wonder if I will have to stand in line with Danny Harris tonight. I hadn't even thought that far ahead. There is always a long line to get in. It goes all along in front of the building (which makes it really suck if it's raining out that night). Once you get to the doors, the line bunches up into a clump inside the vestibule part until you get to the window where you pay. I can't image waiting in line all that time with Danny Harris. Will people think we are together? What would we talk about? At least in the car, I'm sure he will have the stereo jamming, so that won't be a problem really. I actually can't really picture Danny Harris waiting in line, anyway. I don't think I've ever seen that. Him or Jim Keilor or any of their group. Maybe he will just drop me off. I don't know.
I hope my mom will give me some money. I want to get a pack of cigarettes tonight. I have enough to get in and for my skates, but I need a little extra. Sometimes she will give me money for a snack or something at the rink. Probably will just depend if I can get her alone without Nick around before I leave. Oh yeah, that's right--she doesn't know I'm gong skating. Shit. Well, maybe I'll tell her Theresa's mom is taking us to the mall or something. Too much to think about right now. I have to get my outfit figured out first.
* * * * *
My cramps are so bad that I just threw up. I have never known pain like this. It is inside every thinking molecule of my being. I feel like every cell I have is throwing up right now. My stomach and back are flames of thick, smoldering, shooting, knocking, vomiting, throbbing pain that is way more than I am. It has eaten me already and lives on in my form. Take my mind, please.
My mom finally gave me two more Tylenol. She doesn't understand what a joke two more Tylenol will be, but I will take them, anyway. She gave me two over an hour ago and trust me, they do not make a dent in the cramps.
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