Good Enough
Marco and I walked up the sidewalk to school. By November, the weather had grown cold enough for us to see our own breath. I shivered from inside the sleeves of my jacket and he pulled the hood onto my head. I mumbled and thanked him and we kept walking. My hands felt cold to the air, even though they remained covered. I always wore gloves to mask the bruises which had been laden on my hands last night and ones before. After being friends since second grade, Marco understood how much I disliked the sweaty feeling they gave and how it collected in your palms, although I wore them anyway. I especially hated how with my gloves I remained at mercy to my father. But, they stayed shoved into the pockets of my jacket, hidden from the world. And they hurt, they hurt like the most intangible aching sore you have ever known. But I managed to smile and speak to Marco.
“Thanks,” I mumbled again, “Hey, cool necklace, Marco,”. This made him forget little by little about his own troubles. Also, making him feel a little larger amount of love and remembrance for his grandfather, whom since had passed away, Marco has worn this. The simply ornate charm of a Cross embedded in a circle helped me get through the day when I looked up at it, making myself restore faith in life.
We continued walking onward toward the building in the distance in a silence which was broken by the bell ringing for first period. Hearing this I broke into a run, leaving Marco behind. As my speed increased and my hood flew off or my head, dragging in the air behind my back I wished I hadn’t taken off from Marco. I had been fearful, used to rules; I craved rules more than anything. I craved any rules with reasonable, avoidable consequences. Nobody was hurt, and nobody cried by themselves. I felt bad not, so I slowed down. But it was too late and Marco lay too far behind me now. Kept upon the front stairs, {trotted?} inside, and found my books for first period.
I sighed with relief as I reached my class only moments after the tardy bell rang. History was one of my few escapes from the school day and gave me this feeling as if I was accepted into society. Here, I knew there were people like myself. People who lived through things, major events like the Great Depression and Slavery made me feel like my bruises and ripped hands were good enough. They seemed good enough to make history.
“Good morning, Miss Carla,” Mr. Brauer told me with his normally content intonation. His free-ness was one of the things I enjoyed about this class. “Nice of you to join us.” He finished with slight sarcasm.
Today’s lesson was about the Holocaust and World War II, which he explained with the utmost enthusiasm and solemnity. At one point he read a passage from the book “Stories of Holocaust Strength and Survival”. Hava then became my sister. The main character of this story became my companion with whom I talked and played with rocks in attempts to feel like children again. She was whom I hugged and cried with as we crowded in the corner, fearfully hiding from the Nazis which had taken our parents away. We laughed and made fun of them in the cabins, and slept in the same three layered bunk. Together we were some of the few who survived Auschwitz and overcame the Nazi rule. My own world became to feel so real it pulled me into it and I was lost being Carla who is good enough, to Carla of the scars. Mr. Brauer, a Jew, began to tear up and pause consistently in his reading. He remained walking through the aisles between our desks and placing a hand belssingly onto many of our shoulders. Then, reminding us of our lives and luck, which awoke me from my day dream, dismissed us from class. When he had placed his hand on my shoulder it made me feel something of security. A warm feeling of an amber orange struck down to my toes and I felt love for almost the first time.
The other classes went on in monotony for an ongoing four hours. I conjugated in Spanish and read poetry in English. With each time I solved an equation in Algebra the blows came down on my hands again and the pain increased. After fumbling through PE, wearing gloves the whole time, Marco walked with me once again into lunch and I sat down. My stomach groaned tormentingly for the first time since I had had to quit my job clearing tables at Fresh Foods. I stared at the air before me which used to hold a sandwich, it had been ten days since I brought something. My eyes wandered onto the toasted bread with good cheese and tomatoes which appeared in front of Marco. He frowned slightly at his lunch, not at the taste, but at his heritage. This food was different from the other kids at our school whom ate fries and Coke or chips and peanut butter sandwiches. Nobody ate vegetables anymore, and almost nobody brought their lunch from home. No one at our school was a full blooded southern Italian either. And this is what Marco ate in his home: Vegetables, bread, and cheese.
“Carla, are you okay?” he asked me, concerned. “You haven’t brought anything to eat in more than a week,”.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I smiled.
“Really, Carla. What’s up?”, The fear and anxiety was boiling inside of me while Marco persisted.
“Honest,” I lied again. “Just not hungry,”.
After lunch, only Science and Study hall remained. Marco and I walked to our second class of the day together, History being the first, with an imperfect mode to our pace. Neither of us thoroughly enjoyed science class but it wasn’t difficult and Mr. Torre was loud and arrogant enough to cover up what noises we made.
“Wasn’t it a little weird what Mr Brauer did today in History?”, Marco did not like being touched. “I mean, is that legal, the whole touching thing?”
“I don’t know...”, I began. Secretly, I enjoyed the small act of love which he had given us. “He’s fine, I mean think about it. What if six million of your people were killed in mass graves? It’s hard for people to talk about that sometimes,”.
“I know, I know, fine,”. he spit back at me, annoyed. Embarrassment collected in his face, causing it to turn bright red. His voice cracked slightly.
We arrived into the science classroom on time and took our seats. Mr. Torre took attendance and I said “hello” to Meghan Palmer who sat to my left; Marco to my right. Cracking open a book, she ignored me. The homework from last night was in front of me and I stared art the Punnett Square patterns of a chicken’s feathers. Mr. Torre began speaking. I found out that today would be our first dissection of the year’s biology course, and my school career. “This was meant to be a fun experiment to better our knowledge of the anatomy of a frog.” But Mr. Torre instructed us to all put on rubber gloves and glasses. My palms began to sweat tons as I remembered last night’s bruises. And I swallowed hard in my throat at the thought of squeezing my covered hands into a clear, tight rubber covering. My stomach ached as it did a flip-flop and I cringed as I raised my hand into the air to ask a question.
“Yes, Carla,”. he called on mt.
“I- I am already wearing gloves, may I just keep these on?” I asked, my voice remained sheepish and quiet while I looked down at my hands.
“You know the rules very well. Now, you may wear the rubber ones or sit out this activity,”. Warning filled his voice and glasses slid to the tip of his nose, forcing him to look over them.
“I would like to sit it out them,” I mumbled. Mr. Torre couldn’t hear, but I repeated it again, louder. “I want to sit out the experiment.”
“Oh?” He seemed surprised and so did Marco, “Why is that?”
“I told you, I wanted to sit it out.”
“I know you did,” Meghan looked slightly up from her book to where Mr. Torre glared at me. His voice became less patient as he asked, “Why?”
“I just don’t want to do the exercise!” I sat up straight in my my seat now, looking him straight in the eyes, eyes closed, and voice screaming. The ominous chatter from around the room halted and all eyes turned to me. A stinging pain attacked my hands as I pushed against the desk to move my chair back.
“Just let her alone,” Marco defended from under his breath, “Let her alone...”
“Well, okay, since you are so eager to break the rules, go to see the principal.” He gestured towards the door. I got up to go and walked towards the hallway.
“Let her alone, Mr. Torre,”. I heard again.
I walked along the hallway and down the stairs. Through the corridor lay the Principal's office with a small lobby in front. Our school was small, so she doubled as the Spanish teacher, and when I arrived Ms. Manriquez a boy from Study Hall, my next period. She was a new teacher, of three or four years in our school, but kind and genuine. Her face always held either a serious expression or a smile; and she made her classes enjoyable. They weren’t an escape from reality, like History, but as I sang the songs, and wrote silly stories like when I was in second grade it made me feel as if I wasn’t drowning anymore inside a sea of secrets and sorrow. My innocence escaped and flourished with everyone else. When she noticed me standing in the doorway she gently told the boy to leave, and was ready for her next child. Ms. Manriquez welcomed me to sit down, her eyes glinting with a mild astonishment to see me in her office.
“But... But you are the quietest student of mine, what do you mean you were sent here for talking out?”, She asked me later on.
“I wouldn’t take off my gloves,” I mumbled, but we were here alone, and she heard me.
“Well...”, She continued, guiding me to respond. “Why not, Carla?”.
I began to feel uncomfortable once again and another knot formed in the pit of my stomach. “I can’t. My hands are...” I began, searching for the words, but I couldn’t find the right ones. But I also couldn't give her the truth. “Ugly...” was what I settled upon, it being concise, straight forward, and somewhat of truth.
“No, Carla. No seas tonta, let me see,”
“No.”
“Carla, honey now it’s only us here; you can show me,” She said concernedly. Tears began to form in my eyes. I didn’t want to take them off. “Carla, you must take them off. I can suspend you for this,” Suspend me? But school is my only escape...
Anxiety filled inside my stomach and head, making me begin to feel dizzy. Slowly I peeled off the shields and armour from my body. The air stung cool as it hit my damaged skin. I cringed at the sticky feel of my left palm and I proceeded to peel off my right. Soon, I turned my hands over and over in my lap, looking at the green and purple splotches from my fingertips to wrists. Not much of my brownish-peach skin remained visible anymore. And I studied them even more; along with the eyes of Ms. Manriquez. Now I noticed the patterns of bruises and lines. One of my fingers laid crooked and proved hard to bend. There was no feeling in my left pinky and small parts of my palms. It was hard for myself to bear watching so closely on my hands. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and have them disappear. They were ugly. They were not good enough.
“Dios...”, Ms. Manriquez whispered softly in awe. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I lied for the fourth time today and it began to kill me from the inside out. “I just jammed my hand in our door.
She stared at me in disbelief,studying me now, not my hands. My heart beat rapidly and I knew she heard it as well as I. But we remained wordless as I looked at her. Ms. Manriquez’s eyes remained affixed onto my hands which grew sweatier. I waited for a response. My knees, locked in place, trembled as if an earthquake growled under my chair. All the while I remained fearful of what was going to happen. I knew, I knew, I knew that I could not tell her about what had truly happened. Her expression began to change and once again turned to one of complete awe. It was close to blankness. She held her hands to the edge of her desk across from me, they were braced tightly to the wood, to hold back an impulse. Which she gave into when she reached them out slowly and gently touching my hands in her palm. Gracefully, she lifted each one and held it. She then pressed the left between hers with warmth and carefulness. I winced slightly at the pressure. And when she looked me in the eyes her expression fell downward in her face to one of worry.
“Really, Carla, this is...It’s just⇀”, Ms. Manriquez began, but looked off. She seemed ashamed. I thought she understood now what happened. My stomach pains started again as I waited for her mind to return.
“I know they look bad, real bad, but I’m fine... really,” And with that I died a little more inside. I stood up to walk back outside and said goodbye. This was enough for now.
“Carla,” she said, “If you ever do want to talk, just remember, come by.”
I met up with Marco after school and was surprised to see him with another group of boys. He was talking and laughing. “Everything is normal” was my thought of reassurance. As I approached the group they all seemed so normal as well. Just, Marco turned and saw me. He smiled and fumbled backwards from the railing on which he was perched, landing in the grass, embarrassed. Bob Palmer, Meghan’s older brother, helped him up and they became part of the group again. I waited on the bench, and after a few minutes he was left out from where he didn’t belong. But I was still too nervous to smile when he walked over.
“How was it?”, he asked as he sat next to me. At that moment I loved him like a brother, “Was she mad?”.
“No,”, I began, “It went fine, I guess, It was just a little scary to be there the first time,”, It had actually been more stressful than even a near death experience. The pit inside of my stomach refused to budge, and with every word I spoke it tightened, becoming more potent. My voice felt like vomit as it regurgitated from my mouth.
“Carla, you look pale... Are you sure everything went okay?”, Marco tried to seem not to seem like he was invading my life, because he knew I would become uncomfortable when mentioning it. I trembled in my seat next to him, looking into my lap, silent. When he asked this time, I wasn’t uncomfortable with it though. and the crust of my stone wall began to crumble slowly.
“We can tell each other everything, no judgement. Remember?”, he added.
I remembered. I remembered our 6th grade pact when he told me about how much it hurt him when the boys teased him, how he wanted to be taken away by anybody else. My mind twisted circles as I remembered when i told him about failing a maths quiz which my father needed to sign. It was an incredible feeling, to know that somebody remembered, that somebody has cared all this time. And with that, like a crash of concrete around me, Marco had broken down that wall of secrecy I had been holding. I now stood exposed to the world. The simple words and memories were just enough for me to feel safe. I looked up at Marco. My mouth opened and I tried to speak. In my head I searched for the words I wanted to use. Nothing came out. I moved it, in an attempt again, to will my thoughts into voice. Still though, I was scarcely breathing. Our eyes remained locked onto each others and he waited for me. In the back of my mind I began to feel and headache, while my eyes stung and my mouth closed once again. My lip trembled as tears formed in my eyes. I pictured my pathetic looking self staring back at Marco, and in that split second I let it out. The warm, salty water began to fall down my cheeks ans I started to swallow short, quick breaths as I sobbed. And I continued to do so with my head in my hands while he just waited patiently with a hand on my back.
“Can you keep a secret?”, I questioned him, choking on my own tears.
I looked up at his face and he retained my glance, I stole back down to my hands. Staring, I thought about it. I weighed my options of telling him. There was a part of me which still feared my father’s words in my head. And it was this part which swallowed almost all of me. Whole. The other part knew that I needed to tell somebody, and lived on how the silence had been killing me inside. It was this part which remained prominent in my brain. I sucked in air and held my breath for the moment before I pulled off the first glove. My stomach wretched as I glanced on it and then Marco. Automatically, I then dragged the other one off and placed it on my knees with the first. Marco only stared in solemn fear for what he saw.
The expression was similar to that of Ms. Manriquez when she had told me to pull them off, but different in a number of ways too. Her face gave a more wise expression concealed by hidden worry and nervousness. She looked older in her face, like it held more experience. Marco stared down onto my hands as if he was a hawk too astonished to eat his prey. His head was trapped inside a cloud of fear for something. I did not understand the tenseness of this posture, for he was yet to learn why my hands looked like this, and other parts of my body. We both sat silently in this depth of foreign territory we crossed into. A chill of the fall wind broke, and suddenly, I feared being watched. Leading Marco, my legs strayed onto the sidewalk which led us home. After some time, the air became thinner between us and I was ready to speak.
“Okay, it’s like this,”, I began slowly, watching the breath in front of my face. Marco just nodded as he kept his stride next to me, “Remember that time in the sixth grade when I came to school with that bruise on my cheek and eye?”, he nodded again, “ And I told everyone that it had been from a baseball, remember? I felt proud when you questioned me, I felt good that you would care, but was quiet enough to let it go.” I felt nervous and could not locate the words in my mind fast enough to put them in my tongue. “You were the only one who cared too... you asked why you had not been playing with me. But trust me; you don’t want to be a part of this game.
Remembering, a pain struck my cheek and nose once again as I thought of returning home. Then, Trav had been waiting there for me, it was just three weeks after my mother’s death and I cried all the time. But as soon as I had opened the door that day I felt a whole new feeling come over our home that dried every tear up and froze me in fear. I feet numbed at the presence I felt. He just sat there in the chair facing the door, with a bottle.
“What took you so long, Caroline?” he asked without definite pronunciation, and a slur in his voice. Caroline was my mother’s name. “It’s been nearly a month since I seen you,” Trav was becoming angry now and almost came out of his seat. Confused, I tried to help my father through his blind rage and make him remember.
“Dad, it’s me, Carla,” I said. Only he didn’t change at all. I could tell now that he was not all there anymore. The bottle in his hand was of beer, and I noticed they were others, many more, scattered throughout the living room.
“Caroline, it’s been weeks! I-I can’t do this on my own!” He shouted as he stood, unbalanced, in the center of the room.
“Dad, I’m Carla!” I gave him this once again, my final attempt. He didn’t lead on, and I was left alone in the world with my father, who closed on me quickly. “Mom is dead!” I cried desperately.
“No!” He shouted back fiercely, as if I had struck him hard with something, “Don’t you talk about your momma like that!” He clenched his hand into a fist which he raised and pulled back as he came towards me. Releasing it, I ducked while trying to get away from him. He threw one more, landing me across the face. Hard.
Marco remained next to me, waiting quietly for a response. I wanted to stop here, before we dug ourselves deeper into the ditch. But I couldn’t leave him, I needed to finish now. I had to.
“My… Um… dad gave me that,” I mumbled sadly, “He was my baseball in the story,” Ashamed, I continued. “He gave me my hands too, and my back, anc my shoulders,”
“Carla…” He seemed at a loss for words just as I had been. “Why, Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why don’t you tell anyone now?”
“I’m scared, Marco!” I sobbed, “He has all my power. You don’t know what he would do if I told anyone, even you!”
“Carla, look at me,” He said, holding my shoulders as he looked down. I looked up. “You can get through this.” Then quietly, he added, “How bad does it get?”
I lifted up my pants leg to show the massive, purple spot that dwell on the right side of my knee. His eyes bulged and I saw fear, true fear, flooding inside of them. I lowered the cloth and sat down on the ground with my knees to my chest. For the first time in the weeks since that mark had been place I felt it sting a I bent my legs up.
“Dio, Cristo, Santa Maria…” The list went on. This made me fall to the ground and cry some more. Marco rarely spoke Italian outside of his home and to others than his parents. When he did though, it meant things were bad. “Your limp!” he added to the end of his ongoing list. “You have to tell someone, Carla!” he shouted, “You can’t let this keep happening to you… he has to stop… get some help… tell someone… something!”
“No!” I retorted back abruptly, “I can’t! And you have to promise me you won’t either! Promise!”
“Carla…” he replied sympathetically, slowly, “I-I can’t. If you won’t help yourself, I will.”
“No!” I demanded.
“But, I care about you, Carla”
“No!” I protested once again. “If you really cared… You would listen; and not talk.”
“Alright, Carla, for now; But if things get worse…”
“Promise?” I asked, interrupting his clause.
He sighed with anguish, “Promise.”
I looked up from my position of crouched inferiority and met his eyes. They held a glossy surface which I notices as I pulled myself up. The air seemed colder from up here and I felt more exposure. I wasn’t safe anymore like I had been in my turtle shell. We began to walk back on the sidewalk in a tense silence only kept by the face that Marco could not tell anyone. He acted restrained to which hos shoulders stayed raised uneasily. Our pace remained robotically monotonous as we became closer to his house. From the driveway I waved goodbye to him, he looked back at me, as white as a bed-sheet. The olive color of his skin had been flushed away by both the cold and weight on his shoulders. I saw him leave into his home and I held my breath, praying that he did not tell a soul.
I crossed the street and made my way down the alley into my side of town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Carla, wait-” Marco said as I flew passed him and out the door. My stuff was hitched onto my back and I ran down the hallway, out of the door, and into the street where I would almost see my house. The doorway stuck out a little bit and I was getting closer. The night air was cold and I solely wore a hoodie jacket. I ran and ran until about 20 feet from my house and stopped dead without slowing down before. My head took a double-take around me to make sure nobody was there. It was clear, so I began to walk slowly to my door. I steppes, stepped closer to fate.
“Shh!”, I told my feet as I rushed up my door stairs. The coast seemed clear; Nothing lurked in the dark beyond the streetlights. I paused... the endless drone of the television was not apparent. No lights seemed to flicker or glare out of my house's eye. I fitted the key into the grooves of the doorknob and turned the key, cringing at what broke the silence of a dead night.
I crept inside on my heels as I tried not to shuffle on our worn carpeting. It was dark and I heard something coming from the kitchen around back. The light cast shadows which danced across our living room. My knees... my knees always trembled when I knew what was coming. A figure began to move across the kitchen's tile floor; its shadow across the living room. It was my father. My knees trembled even more. That's when I noticed the smell. I noticed that our home smelled of burnt toast and alcohol. My legs began to run me up the stairs, but my mind new better. If I bolted now and slammed that door to my bedroom as soon as I was in, locking it, this would end worse. It would be bad. So instead I tip-toed quietly up to my room. I stepped slowly and tried to balance the weight on my legs equally. But on that fourth step, two from the top, it creaked. I could feel it give just a little bit under me and the hair on my back stand straight on end. So did my father's. His shadow shot up, wire-like, and he walked over so I could see, our of the side of my eye, Trav holding butter and a picture of my momma as he walked behind me.
“Where in God's name have you been?” He demanded, “I had not dinner tonight you know.
“Nowhere, Trav” I mumbled without looking back.
“Turn around, Carla!”, Warning sharpened his voice enough that I did.
His hair was messed and his face sweaty. Wearing a white wife-beater shirt my father looked at me with his head pointed slightly down with something I recognized in his eyes. Unshaven and slightly unbalanced. I could ell he was drinking a lot. And, boy, was he angry.
“Were you been?”
“I said, “Nowhere”, Trav,” That last word cracked and I swallowed down a terrified throat.
“Nowhere, Huh?” Trav's legs shifted slightly from side to side. “All you ever do is nothing... All you ever go is nowhere... Why can't you be more like your momma. Damn, she was perfect,” That was it, I knew I was going to get it. His hands began to move, open-close, open-close, and his head moved up and wound back around again...
I tried to get upstairs but the next step was the end of my success. He had me! My wrist was held tightly in the strong hands of my father as he pulled me backwards toward him.
“Trav! No! No! Stop!” I shouted and tears raged like rivers in my eyes out onto everything. “I was at Marco’s house! Trav! Just stop! Please! Help!”
“No! No! No! Marco! Stop!” he simply mimicked back, seeming slightly angrier at the mention of Marco’s name.
I was crying hard and I felt it over and over. He struck my arms and my knees. I pulled hard and tried to get away, but my father was too strong. His only response was to strike onto my arms again and pound my back.
“Help!” I screamed louder than anyone could ever imagine me doing and it echoed through our near empty house. “Hel-- !” My face was pushed against Trav's chest to the point where I couldn't breathe. My arms thrashed trying to hit at Trav, and my tears drenched his shirt which muffled my cries. His hands remained firmly on my shoulders and I had no control. I let him do whatever he wanted to me. I saw the wall, and everything went black.
Marco and I walked up the sidewalk to school. By November, the weather had grown cold enough for us to see our own breath. I shivered from inside the sleeves of my jacket and he pulled the hood onto my head. I mumbled and thanked him and we kept walking. My hands felt cold to the air, even though they remained covered. I always wore gloves to mask the bruises which had been laden on my hands last night and ones before. After being friends since second grade, Marco understood how much I disliked the sweaty feeling they gave and how it collected in your palms, although I wore them anyway. I especially hated how with my gloves I remained at mercy to my father. But, they stayed shoved into the pockets of my jacket, hidden from the world. And they hurt, they hurt like the most intangible aching sore you have ever known. But I managed to smile and speak to Marco.
“Thanks,” I mumbled again, “Hey, cool necklace, Marco,”. This made him forget little by little about his own troubles. Also, making him feel a little larger amount of love and remembrance for his grandfather, whom since had passed away, Marco has worn this. The simply ornate charm of a Cross embedded in a circle helped me get through the day when I looked up at it, making myself restore faith in life.
We continued walking onward toward the building in the distance in a silence which was broken by the bell ringing for first period. Hearing this I broke into a run, leaving Marco behind. As my speed increased and my hood flew off or my head, dragging in the air behind my back I wished I hadn’t taken off from Marco. I had been fearful, used to rules; I craved rules more than anything. I craved any rules with reasonable, avoidable consequences. Nobody was hurt, and nobody cried by themselves. I felt bad not, so I slowed down. But it was too late and Marco lay too far behind me now. Kept upon the front stairs, {trotted?} inside, and found my books for first period.
I sighed with relief as I reached my class only moments after the tardy bell rang. History was one of my few escapes from the school day and gave me this feeling as if I was accepted into society. Here, I knew there were people like myself. People who lived through things, major events like the Great Depression and Slavery made me feel like my bruises and ripped hands were good enough. They seemed good enough to make history.
“Good morning, Miss Carla,” Mr. Brauer told me with his normally content intonation. His free-ness was one of the things I enjoyed about this class. “Nice of you to join us.” He finished with slight sarcasm.
Today’s lesson was about the Holocaust and World War II, which he explained with the utmost enthusiasm and solemnity. At one point he read a passage from the book “Stories of Holocaust Strength and Survival”. Hava then became my sister. The main character of this story became my companion with whom I talked and played with rocks in attempts to feel like children again. She was whom I hugged and cried with as we crowded in the corner, fearfully hiding from the Nazis which had taken our parents away. We laughed and made fun of them in the cabins, and slept in the same three layered bunk. Together we were some of the few who survived Auschwitz and overcame the Nazi rule. My own world became to feel so real it pulled me into it and I was lost being Carla who is good enough, to Carla of the scars. Mr. Brauer, a Jew, began to tear up and pause consistently in his reading. He remained walking through the aisles between our desks and placing a hand belssingly onto many of our shoulders. Then, reminding us of our lives and luck, which awoke me from my day dream, dismissed us from class. When he had placed his hand on my shoulder it made me feel something of security. A warm feeling of an amber orange struck down to my toes and I felt love for almost the first time.
The other classes went on in monotony for an ongoing four hours. I conjugated in Spanish and read poetry in English. With each time I solved an equation in Algebra the blows came down on my hands again and the pain increased. After fumbling through PE, wearing gloves the whole time, Marco walked with me once again into lunch and I sat down. My stomach groaned tormentingly for the first time since I had had to quit my job clearing tables at Fresh Foods. I stared at the air before me which used to hold a sandwich, it had been ten days since I brought something. My eyes wandered onto the toasted bread with good cheese and tomatoes which appeared in front of Marco. He frowned slightly at his lunch, not at the taste, but at his heritage. This food was different from the other kids at our school whom ate fries and Coke or chips and peanut butter sandwiches. Nobody ate vegetables anymore, and almost nobody brought their lunch from home. No one at our school was a full blooded southern Italian either. And this is what Marco ate in his home: Vegetables, bread, and cheese.
“Carla, are you okay?” he asked me, concerned. “You haven’t brought anything to eat in more than a week,”.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I smiled.
“Really, Carla. What’s up?”, The fear and anxiety was boiling inside of me while Marco persisted.
“Honest,” I lied again. “Just not hungry,”.
After lunch, only Science and Study hall remained. Marco and I walked to our second class of the day together, History being the first, with an imperfect mode to our pace. Neither of us thoroughly enjoyed science class but it wasn’t difficult and Mr. Torre was loud and arrogant enough to cover up what noises we made.
“Wasn’t it a little weird what Mr Brauer did today in History?”, Marco did not like being touched. “I mean, is that legal, the whole touching thing?”
“I don’t know...”, I began. Secretly, I enjoyed the small act of love which he had given us. “He’s fine, I mean think about it. What if six million of your people were killed in mass graves? It’s hard for people to talk about that sometimes,”.
“I know, I know, fine,”. he spit back at me, annoyed. Embarrassment collected in his face, causing it to turn bright red. His voice cracked slightly.
We arrived into the science classroom on time and took our seats. Mr. Torre took attendance and I said “hello” to Meghan Palmer who sat to my left; Marco to my right. Cracking open a book, she ignored me. The homework from last night was in front of me and I stared art the Punnett Square patterns of a chicken’s feathers. Mr. Torre began speaking. I found out that today would be our first dissection of the year’s biology course, and my school career. “This was meant to be a fun experiment to better our knowledge of the anatomy of a frog.” But Mr. Torre instructed us to all put on rubber gloves and glasses. My palms began to sweat tons as I remembered last night’s bruises. And I swallowed hard in my throat at the thought of squeezing my covered hands into a clear, tight rubber covering. My stomach ached as it did a flip-flop and I cringed as I raised my hand into the air to ask a question.
“Yes, Carla,”. he called on mt.
“I- I am already wearing gloves, may I just keep these on?” I asked, my voice remained sheepish and quiet while I looked down at my hands.
“You know the rules very well. Now, you may wear the rubber ones or sit out this activity,”. Warning filled his voice and glasses slid to the tip of his nose, forcing him to look over them.
“I would like to sit it out them,” I mumbled. Mr. Torre couldn’t hear, but I repeated it again, louder. “I want to sit out the experiment.”
“Oh?” He seemed surprised and so did Marco, “Why is that?”
“I told you, I wanted to sit it out.”
“I know you did,” Meghan looked slightly up from her book to where Mr. Torre glared at me. His voice became less patient as he asked, “Why?”
“I just don’t want to do the exercise!” I sat up straight in my my seat now, looking him straight in the eyes, eyes closed, and voice screaming. The ominous chatter from around the room halted and all eyes turned to me. A stinging pain attacked my hands as I pushed against the desk to move my chair back.
“Just let her alone,” Marco defended from under his breath, “Let her alone...”
“Well, okay, since you are so eager to break the rules, go to see the principal.” He gestured towards the door. I got up to go and walked towards the hallway.
“Let her alone, Mr. Torre,”. I heard again.
I walked along the hallway and down the stairs. Through the corridor lay the Principal's office with a small lobby in front. Our school was small, so she doubled as the Spanish teacher, and when I arrived Ms. Manriquez a boy from Study Hall, my next period. She was a new teacher, of three or four years in our school, but kind and genuine. Her face always held either a serious expression or a smile; and she made her classes enjoyable. They weren’t an escape from reality, like History, but as I sang the songs, and wrote silly stories like when I was in second grade it made me feel as if I wasn’t drowning anymore inside a sea of secrets and sorrow. My innocence escaped and flourished with everyone else. When she noticed me standing in the doorway she gently told the boy to leave, and was ready for her next child. Ms. Manriquez welcomed me to sit down, her eyes glinting with a mild astonishment to see me in her office.
“But... But you are the quietest student of mine, what do you mean you were sent here for talking out?”, She asked me later on.
“I wouldn’t take off my gloves,” I mumbled, but we were here alone, and she heard me.
“Well...”, She continued, guiding me to respond. “Why not, Carla?”.
I began to feel uncomfortable once again and another knot formed in the pit of my stomach. “I can’t. My hands are...” I began, searching for the words, but I couldn’t find the right ones. But I also couldn't give her the truth. “Ugly...” was what I settled upon, it being concise, straight forward, and somewhat of truth.
“No, Carla. No seas tonta, let me see,”
“No.”
“Carla, honey now it’s only us here; you can show me,” She said concernedly. Tears began to form in my eyes. I didn’t want to take them off. “Carla, you must take them off. I can suspend you for this,” Suspend me? But school is my only escape...
Anxiety filled inside my stomach and head, making me begin to feel dizzy. Slowly I peeled off the shields and armour from my body. The air stung cool as it hit my damaged skin. I cringed at the sticky feel of my left palm and I proceeded to peel off my right. Soon, I turned my hands over and over in my lap, looking at the green and purple splotches from my fingertips to wrists. Not much of my brownish-peach skin remained visible anymore. And I studied them even more; along with the eyes of Ms. Manriquez. Now I noticed the patterns of bruises and lines. One of my fingers laid crooked and proved hard to bend. There was no feeling in my left pinky and small parts of my palms. It was hard for myself to bear watching so closely on my hands. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and have them disappear. They were ugly. They were not good enough.
“Dios...”, Ms. Manriquez whispered softly in awe. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I lied for the fourth time today and it began to kill me from the inside out. “I just jammed my hand in our door.
She stared at me in disbelief,studying me now, not my hands. My heart beat rapidly and I knew she heard it as well as I. But we remained wordless as I looked at her. Ms. Manriquez’s eyes remained affixed onto my hands which grew sweatier. I waited for a response. My knees, locked in place, trembled as if an earthquake growled under my chair. All the while I remained fearful of what was going to happen. I knew, I knew, I knew that I could not tell her about what had truly happened. Her expression began to change and once again turned to one of complete awe. It was close to blankness. She held her hands to the edge of her desk across from me, they were braced tightly to the wood, to hold back an impulse. Which she gave into when she reached them out slowly and gently touching my hands in her palm. Gracefully, she lifted each one and held it. She then pressed the left between hers with warmth and carefulness. I winced slightly at the pressure. And when she looked me in the eyes her expression fell downward in her face to one of worry.
“Really, Carla, this is...It’s just⇀”, Ms. Manriquez began, but looked off. She seemed ashamed. I thought she understood now what happened. My stomach pains started again as I waited for her mind to return.
“I know they look bad, real bad, but I’m fine... really,” And with that I died a little more inside. I stood up to walk back outside and said goodbye. This was enough for now.
“Carla,” she said, “If you ever do want to talk, just remember, come by.”
I met up with Marco after school and was surprised to see him with another group of boys. He was talking and laughing. “Everything is normal” was my thought of reassurance. As I approached the group they all seemed so normal as well. Just, Marco turned and saw me. He smiled and fumbled backwards from the railing on which he was perched, landing in the grass, embarrassed. Bob Palmer, Meghan’s older brother, helped him up and they became part of the group again. I waited on the bench, and after a few minutes he was left out from where he didn’t belong. But I was still too nervous to smile when he walked over.
“How was it?”, he asked as he sat next to me. At that moment I loved him like a brother, “Was she mad?”.
“No,”, I began, “It went fine, I guess, It was just a little scary to be there the first time,”, It had actually been more stressful than even a near death experience. The pit inside of my stomach refused to budge, and with every word I spoke it tightened, becoming more potent. My voice felt like vomit as it regurgitated from my mouth.
“Carla, you look pale... Are you sure everything went okay?”, Marco tried to seem not to seem like he was invading my life, because he knew I would become uncomfortable when mentioning it. I trembled in my seat next to him, looking into my lap, silent. When he asked this time, I wasn’t uncomfortable with it though. and the crust of my stone wall began to crumble slowly.
“We can tell each other everything, no judgement. Remember?”, he added.
I remembered. I remembered our 6th grade pact when he told me about how much it hurt him when the boys teased him, how he wanted to be taken away by anybody else. My mind twisted circles as I remembered when i told him about failing a maths quiz which my father needed to sign. It was an incredible feeling, to know that somebody remembered, that somebody has cared all this time. And with that, like a crash of concrete around me, Marco had broken down that wall of secrecy I had been holding. I now stood exposed to the world. The simple words and memories were just enough for me to feel safe. I looked up at Marco. My mouth opened and I tried to speak. In my head I searched for the words I wanted to use. Nothing came out. I moved it, in an attempt again, to will my thoughts into voice. Still though, I was scarcely breathing. Our eyes remained locked onto each others and he waited for me. In the back of my mind I began to feel and headache, while my eyes stung and my mouth closed once again. My lip trembled as tears formed in my eyes. I pictured my pathetic looking self staring back at Marco, and in that split second I let it out. The warm, salty water began to fall down my cheeks ans I started to swallow short, quick breaths as I sobbed. And I continued to do so with my head in my hands while he just waited patiently with a hand on my back.
“Can you keep a secret?”, I questioned him, choking on my own tears.
I looked up at his face and he retained my glance, I stole back down to my hands. Staring, I thought about it. I weighed my options of telling him. There was a part of me which still feared my father’s words in my head. And it was this part which swallowed almost all of me. Whole. The other part knew that I needed to tell somebody, and lived on how the silence had been killing me inside. It was this part which remained prominent in my brain. I sucked in air and held my breath for the moment before I pulled off the first glove. My stomach wretched as I glanced on it and then Marco. Automatically, I then dragged the other one off and placed it on my knees with the first. Marco only stared in solemn fear for what he saw.
The expression was similar to that of Ms. Manriquez when she had told me to pull them off, but different in a number of ways too. Her face gave a more wise expression concealed by hidden worry and nervousness. She looked older in her face, like it held more experience. Marco stared down onto my hands as if he was a hawk too astonished to eat his prey. His head was trapped inside a cloud of fear for something. I did not understand the tenseness of this posture, for he was yet to learn why my hands looked like this, and other parts of my body. We both sat silently in this depth of foreign territory we crossed into. A chill of the fall wind broke, and suddenly, I feared being watched. Leading Marco, my legs strayed onto the sidewalk which led us home. After some time, the air became thinner between us and I was ready to speak.
“Okay, it’s like this,”, I began slowly, watching the breath in front of my face. Marco just nodded as he kept his stride next to me, “Remember that time in the sixth grade when I came to school with that bruise on my cheek and eye?”, he nodded again, “ And I told everyone that it had been from a baseball, remember? I felt proud when you questioned me, I felt good that you would care, but was quiet enough to let it go.” I felt nervous and could not locate the words in my mind fast enough to put them in my tongue. “You were the only one who cared too... you asked why you had not been playing with me. But trust me; you don’t want to be a part of this game.
Remembering, a pain struck my cheek and nose once again as I thought of returning home. Then, Trav had been waiting there for me, it was just three weeks after my mother’s death and I cried all the time. But as soon as I had opened the door that day I felt a whole new feeling come over our home that dried every tear up and froze me in fear. I feet numbed at the presence I felt. He just sat there in the chair facing the door, with a bottle.
“What took you so long, Caroline?” he asked without definite pronunciation, and a slur in his voice. Caroline was my mother’s name. “It’s been nearly a month since I seen you,” Trav was becoming angry now and almost came out of his seat. Confused, I tried to help my father through his blind rage and make him remember.
“Dad, it’s me, Carla,” I said. Only he didn’t change at all. I could tell now that he was not all there anymore. The bottle in his hand was of beer, and I noticed they were others, many more, scattered throughout the living room.
“Caroline, it’s been weeks! I-I can’t do this on my own!” He shouted as he stood, unbalanced, in the center of the room.
“Dad, I’m Carla!” I gave him this once again, my final attempt. He didn’t lead on, and I was left alone in the world with my father, who closed on me quickly. “Mom is dead!” I cried desperately.
“No!” He shouted back fiercely, as if I had struck him hard with something, “Don’t you talk about your momma like that!” He clenched his hand into a fist which he raised and pulled back as he came towards me. Releasing it, I ducked while trying to get away from him. He threw one more, landing me across the face. Hard.
Marco remained next to me, waiting quietly for a response. I wanted to stop here, before we dug ourselves deeper into the ditch. But I couldn’t leave him, I needed to finish now. I had to.
“My… Um… dad gave me that,” I mumbled sadly, “He was my baseball in the story,” Ashamed, I continued. “He gave me my hands too, and my back, anc my shoulders,”
“Carla…” He seemed at a loss for words just as I had been. “Why, Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why don’t you tell anyone now?”
“I’m scared, Marco!” I sobbed, “He has all my power. You don’t know what he would do if I told anyone, even you!”
“Carla, look at me,” He said, holding my shoulders as he looked down. I looked up. “You can get through this.” Then quietly, he added, “How bad does it get?”
I lifted up my pants leg to show the massive, purple spot that dwell on the right side of my knee. His eyes bulged and I saw fear, true fear, flooding inside of them. I lowered the cloth and sat down on the ground with my knees to my chest. For the first time in the weeks since that mark had been place I felt it sting a I bent my legs up.
“Dio, Cristo, Santa Maria…” The list went on. This made me fall to the ground and cry some more. Marco rarely spoke Italian outside of his home and to others than his parents. When he did though, it meant things were bad. “Your limp!” he added to the end of his ongoing list. “You have to tell someone, Carla!” he shouted, “You can’t let this keep happening to you… he has to stop… get some help… tell someone… something!”
“No!” I retorted back abruptly, “I can’t! And you have to promise me you won’t either! Promise!”
“Carla…” he replied sympathetically, slowly, “I-I can’t. If you won’t help yourself, I will.”
“No!” I demanded.
“But, I care about you, Carla”
“No!” I protested once again. “If you really cared… You would listen; and not talk.”
“Alright, Carla, for now; But if things get worse…”
“Promise?” I asked, interrupting his clause.
He sighed with anguish, “Promise.”
I looked up from my position of crouched inferiority and met his eyes. They held a glossy surface which I notices as I pulled myself up. The air seemed colder from up here and I felt more exposure. I wasn’t safe anymore like I had been in my turtle shell. We began to walk back on the sidewalk in a tense silence only kept by the face that Marco could not tell anyone. He acted restrained to which hos shoulders stayed raised uneasily. Our pace remained robotically monotonous as we became closer to his house. From the driveway I waved goodbye to him, he looked back at me, as white as a bed-sheet. The olive color of his skin had been flushed away by both the cold and weight on his shoulders. I saw him leave into his home and I held my breath, praying that he did not tell a soul.
I crossed the street and made my way down the alley into my side of town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Carla, wait-” Marco said as I flew passed him and out the door. My stuff was hitched onto my back and I ran down the hallway, out of the door, and into the street where I would almost see my house. The doorway stuck out a little bit and I was getting closer. The night air was cold and I solely wore a hoodie jacket. I ran and ran until about 20 feet from my house and stopped dead without slowing down before. My head took a double-take around me to make sure nobody was there. It was clear, so I began to walk slowly to my door. I steppes, stepped closer to fate.
“Shh!”, I told my feet as I rushed up my door stairs. The coast seemed clear; Nothing lurked in the dark beyond the streetlights. I paused... the endless drone of the television was not apparent. No lights seemed to flicker or glare out of my house's eye. I fitted the key into the grooves of the doorknob and turned the key, cringing at what broke the silence of a dead night.
I crept inside on my heels as I tried not to shuffle on our worn carpeting. It was dark and I heard something coming from the kitchen around back. The light cast shadows which danced across our living room. My knees... my knees always trembled when I knew what was coming. A figure began to move across the kitchen's tile floor; its shadow across the living room. It was my father. My knees trembled even more. That's when I noticed the smell. I noticed that our home smelled of burnt toast and alcohol. My legs began to run me up the stairs, but my mind new better. If I bolted now and slammed that door to my bedroom as soon as I was in, locking it, this would end worse. It would be bad. So instead I tip-toed quietly up to my room. I stepped slowly and tried to balance the weight on my legs equally. But on that fourth step, two from the top, it creaked. I could feel it give just a little bit under me and the hair on my back stand straight on end. So did my father's. His shadow shot up, wire-like, and he walked over so I could see, our of the side of my eye, Trav holding butter and a picture of my momma as he walked behind me.
“Where in God's name have you been?” He demanded, “I had not dinner tonight you know.
“Nowhere, Trav” I mumbled without looking back.
“Turn around, Carla!”, Warning sharpened his voice enough that I did.
His hair was messed and his face sweaty. Wearing a white wife-beater shirt my father looked at me with his head pointed slightly down with something I recognized in his eyes. Unshaven and slightly unbalanced. I could ell he was drinking a lot. And, boy, was he angry.
“Were you been?”
“I said, “Nowhere”, Trav,” That last word cracked and I swallowed down a terrified throat.
“Nowhere, Huh?” Trav's legs shifted slightly from side to side. “All you ever do is nothing... All you ever go is nowhere... Why can't you be more like your momma. Damn, she was perfect,” That was it, I knew I was going to get it. His hands began to move, open-close, open-close, and his head moved up and wound back around again...
I tried to get upstairs but the next step was the end of my success. He had me! My wrist was held tightly in the strong hands of my father as he pulled me backwards toward him.
“Trav! No! No! Stop!” I shouted and tears raged like rivers in my eyes out onto everything. “I was at Marco’s house! Trav! Just stop! Please! Help!”
“No! No! No! Marco! Stop!” he simply mimicked back, seeming slightly angrier at the mention of Marco’s name.
I was crying hard and I felt it over and over. He struck my arms and my knees. I pulled hard and tried to get away, but my father was too strong. His only response was to strike onto my arms again and pound my back.
“Help!” I screamed louder than anyone could ever imagine me doing and it echoed through our near empty house. “Hel-- !” My face was pushed against Trav's chest to the point where I couldn't breathe. My arms thrashed trying to hit at Trav, and my tears drenched his shirt which muffled my cries. His hands remained firmly on my shoulders and I had no control. I let him do whatever he wanted to me. I saw the wall, and everything went black.
