Blaze (20 page)

It feels so good I take a deep breath and am just about to let loose again when the house phone gives a loud
BRIIIING!
I pick it up and blurt an angry, “Hello!” into the receiver.

“Oh, my! Blaze? What are you doing home so early?” It’s Mema Sissy’s smooth voice. “I’m calling to wish your mother a happy Name Day.”

I bang my temple with the phone. “Mom’s still at work, Mema,” I say with zero-percent patience in my voice.

“Oh, I am getting a bit forgetful in my old age,” says Mema. “I thought she might be home by now.”

“I can tell her you called,” I offer.

“Hmmm, yes. So tell me, how is that boy Mark you’re dating?”
A
bit
forgetful
my
butt.

“We were never really dating, Mema.”

“I don’t know, dear, I already have his Name Day down in my calendar to call you, April twenty-fifth.” I can hear her dachshunds barking in the background as Mema goes on. “Mark has always been one of my favorite saints. Most people like Peter for his enthusiasm or John for writing so beautifully, but I’m a Mark fan all the way. In fact, maybe if I’d named your father Mark instead of Michael he wouldn’t have turned out to be such a deadbeat.”

“Mark and I have totally broken up,” I interrupt before she can start ranting about Dad. “And this Mark is definitely
not
a saint.”

“Did you know the winged lion is St. Mark’s symbol? So majestic! I really regret not giving that name to your awful father…”

I can’t take it anymore. I totally lose it on my Mema Sissy. I start with, “Listen here! I know you believe all this crap about names and saints is somehow meaningful…” and it just gets worse from there. By the time Josh walks in the front door, I’m saying some very unholy things into the phone.

His eyes widen as he flings his backpack on the couch. “Who are you talking to?” he mouths, which shuts me up pretty quick.

I stand, holding the receiver out toward him helplessly. “It’s, um… Mema?” I squeak.

He stifles a laugh and takes the phone. Pressing it to his ear he says, “Oh my God, Mema, I am
so
sorry! Blaze is taking serious medication for a cold right now and…”

His end of the conversation dissolves into penitent ‘yes’s and ‘sorry’s. Until finally he ends with, “I understand, Mema, I’ll tell her.”

As soon as the phone disconnects, Josh morphs from mild to hysterical as I clap both hands over my mouth. “I can’t believe I just let loose on Mema like that,” I say. “I’m definitely going to hell.”

“It’s okay,” Josh says. “I’ll just be her favorite grandchild for a while.” He tips his chin up and frames his smiling face with jazz hands.

The two of us start laughing, and I’m filled with gratitude that Josh doesn’t have a clue what’s happening to me over at the high school. I know time is shrinking before the rumors reach his grade, but I’m determined to keep him in the dark as long as possible.

When he finally stops laughing, Josh meets my eyes. “You doing okay, sis?”

“Fine.” I shrug. “I’m just on the rag and took it out on Mema.”

“Ugh! Blaze!” Josh crosses his wrists in front of his face to block my sharing. “Way, way, WAY too much information.”

“Well, you asked,” I say. “Are you sure you don’t want to know details? Like for instance the tampons I use are—”

Josh jams his fingers into his ears and runs from the room loudly singing, “La! La! La! La! La!”

Maybe
I
should
try
that
technique
at
school
the
next
time
someone
calls
me
a
slut,
I think, heading for the garage for some paint to cover up the ugly word.

Fortunately, I saved the leftover pink paint from Superturd’s flame job and so I cover over
SLUT!
without a problem. Well, other than the fact that there’s now one bright pink patch on an otherwise faded pink flame that, if you look at it from the right angle in the sunlight, still says
SLUT!

With a sigh I put the pink paint away in the garage as in my head I chant,
La! La! La! La! La! La!

• • •

“Please send Blaze to Principal Hoovlen’s office.”

The monotoned static voice comes over the loud speaker during biology lab. When I stand up to go, some smartass in the back of the room gives a fake *
cough* “whore,”
which gets a few laughs. The whole class is so juvenile and stupid I wonder why I even bother feeling sad as I clutch my books to my chest and barrel out the door.

I
just
need
to
ignore
them
, I think as I make my way toward the school office.
Keep
my
head
down
and
pretend
I’m someplace else.
Surely things can’t get any worse.

When I get to the principal’s office, the door is propped open and the secretary has her usual classical music blaring out of her computer. Her mild pleasantness tightens as she leads me to Principal Hoovlen’s inner sanctum. I walk through the door, and that’s when I see it. Physical proof that things can
always
get worse. A leg clad in light blue hospital scrubs. And not just any leg. Mom’s leg.
I
should
just
kill
myself
now
and
be
done
with
it.

Mom’s back is toward the door, and I avert my eyes as I sink into the chair beside her. I know immediately she’s here about the sext and that the evil bald dictator sitting at his desk in front of us is the one who called her in behind my back.

I glance at Principal Hoovlen. He’s a total NASCAR fanatic, which is kind of a joke around the school, but he’s actually pretty well-liked for a principal. A lot of the football players think he’s some sort of chum because he used to be a coach, but I’ve always been intimidated by him.

It seems as if Mom is too, since she hides her reaction while he tells her about my “situation.” To his credit, he manages to avoid using the words “slut,” “whore,” and “skank-ho.” Apparently someone came to him after witnessing my exchange with Ryan. Mr. Hoovlen doesn’t have all the details right, but he conveys the theme fairly well. Basically, I’ve been getting bullied and as he says, “We take this sort of thing very seriously these days.”

When he finishes Mom’s debriefing, he leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and interlaces his hands over his knee.

We wait silently for Mom’s reaction. She sits erect, eyes closed, chin raised, breathing shallowly. With a final slow, deep breath she seems to pull herself together.

“Do you have a copy of this photo?” Mom asks him calmly.

Principal Hoovlen straightens. “I don’t think the indecent photo of your daughter is of consequence at this point, the other students seem to—”

Mom puts her hand out to me. For a moment, I think she’s breaking me out due to lack of evidence, but she commands, “Give me your cell phone.” I stare at her empty palm. “Right now, Blaze!”

My superhero buttons rattle gently in the silent office as I dig through my messenger bag. I find my phone and hand it over.

At first I think this is just step one of grounding me from all present and future technological devices, but when she turns it on and starts scrolling around I nearly lunge to snatch it back. I should’ve pretended I lost it or it was stolen or even that I crushed it underneath Superturd’s back tire. Anything but let her get a hold of it, because I quickly realize what she’s looking for. And it doesn’t take long for her to find it either.
Curse
that
damned
photo!

I can tell the moment she catches sight of it because she sucks in her breath so sharply Principal Hoovlen actually flinches. Mom must’ve taken in all the air from the room too, because I suddenly can’t breathe. A glance at Mr. Hoovlen confirms the sudden scarcity of oxygen.

Mom closes her eyes as she places the phone on the edge of the desk. I reach over and shut it off without looking at the devastating image. I curse myself for not erasing it.
I
will
definitely
be
crushing
this
thing
under
Superturd’s back tire
, I promise as I toss the phone back in my bag.

When Mom opens her eyes they dart quickly to Principal Hoovlen. She draws in another slow, deep breath, nearly suffocating us all. She smoothes the front of her scrub top and places her hands on her lap.

“What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?” she says calmly, which is such an oddball thing to say it makes me realize she’s actually concerned about Principal Hoovlen’s impression of her mothering skills. She must be feeling judged, because the real Mom would go supernova over that photo.

“I didn’t take it.”

“Well, you sure looked happy enough to have it taken. Where did you even get that ridiculous underwear?”

“The girls and I were just messing around at the mall.” I had been dreading her reaction, but now she’s annoying me with her phoniness. “I
do
buy underwear, you know.”

Mom glances toward Principal Hoovlen. “Don’t you get fresh with me, miss. I should be at the hospital right now.” Mom’s eyes dart back and forth. In a low conspiring growl she asks. “What the hell is going on with you, Blaze? First the pink hair and the minivan. Now this awful photo? And what happened on the phone with Mema Sissy? Don’t you know we need her to keep paying your gas card? Do you want to ruin everything?” She leans back and widens her eyes at me. “Blaze. Are you pregnant?”

Principal Hoovlen gives a panicked squeak and I sit blinking at her a few moments before I feel it bubbling up from inside. Laughter. I must’ve snapped, because I can’t help it. I start laughing hysterically. “No, Mom, I’m not pregnant.” I spit on the
p
sound. “And I have the pink pee stick to prove it.” Principal Hoovlen and Mom just sit there, helpless bystanders, as I come completely unhinged.

“Do you think this is some sort of sick joke?” Mom asks. I shake my head and try to look as serious as possible while wiping my eyes and breaking into giggles again and again.

“I hardly think your principal would waste his time if this wasn’t very serious, Blaze.” She turns to Mr. Hoovlen. “This is all because of her father, you know. He left us nearly five years ago. Took off to New York to pursue some silly dream…”

Anger squashes my laughter. I was bad at suppressing my giggles, but I’m even worse at suppressing my rage. “Would you mind
shutting
up
about Dad?” I say to her.

The sound of typing from the next room stops, and everything goes still. Mom just stares at me a few moments. She shifts sideways in her seat and smiles apologetically to my mute principal.

But I’m not finished yet. I’ve had too much pressure piled on me for far too long. Mema’s the one who was always harping on me to find my voice. Now it’s time for me to use it.

“I am SO sick of you blaming him for everything.” I hear my words, but it feels like it’s someone else yelling. “God forbid anyone makes a mistake in your world. Do you have any idea how hard things have been for me?”

“Hard for you?” She finally forgets about pretending to be the perfect mother. “I’m the one who got stuck with all the work while that bastard runs around New York doing whatever he pleases!”

Mr. Hoovlen has the good taste to look completely mortified for the both of us.

“What thanks do I get? You’re always acting as if your father is going to swoop in and rescue you,” Mom says. “Like he’s some sort of hero—”

“This. Is not. About. Dad.” I stab her with my words. “I don’t blame him for leaving you and Mema. Nobody is perfect enough for you two, ever. God forbid anyone show they’re human or make a mistake. I’d leave too, if I could. As a matter of fact…”

With that, I stand up, fling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and storm out of the office.

“Blaze, wait!” Mom calls after me. “Come back here and discuss this.”

But I’m already out into the hallway. The secretary’s annoying classical music fades as I move away.

I turn back and see Mom standing in the office doorway. She looks deflated in her hospital scrubs, and I’m ashamed to be the one who knocked the wind out of her. She looks from me to the principal, as if deciding how she’s supposed to act. Like she needs some sort of instructions to tell her what she should do. A How to Be a Mother manual.

I turn to my right and kick open the emergency exit doors. The alarm blares in protest and begins echoing throughout the school as I march across the student lot toward Superturd.

I need to put an end to this once and for all.

Whoosh!
I’m doing it. I’m taking flight!

I drive well over the speed limit with a map printout lying face-up on the seat beside me. It has a thick yellow line tracing its way across Pennsylvania and into New York City. I’m going to see my dad.

Superturd’s back cargo area is loaded with the boxes of comics. I’m headed to his apartment. Dad was a hero to Quentin, and now it’s time for him to be a hero to me. It’s my turn. I just know he’ll be able to help.

I tried to call, but he didn’t pick up and I didn’t trust myself to leave a message without spilling my guts all over his voicemail. I went ahead and mapped out directions to the address I was supposed to ship the comics to. Now I’m zooming east along Route 80 and glad to be off the winding back roads that led to the interstate. According to Mapquest, the trip to New York will take about six and a half hours, but I really don’t want to get to my dad’s place in the middle of the night. Before I left, I grabbed my gas card plus all the money I’ve hoarded over soccer mom season. Of course, I’ve pretty much spent all my comic book store earnings using my employee discount on comics, but I should be covered if I get sleepy and need to stop at a hotel.

I’m so sick of feeling beaten down, and I’m sure Dad knows exactly what I’m going through. After all, if Mom and Mema were at all tech-savvy, they’d have set up an anti-Dad website to get the whole Internet hating him years ago.

I long to blast the radio, but each time I find a song that fits my mood it dissolves into static before it’s even half over. I keep a couple of mix CDs in the van, but I’ve listened to them each about a million times, and besides, I need an entirely new playlist to capture my dark mood.

Finally, I turn the static-maker off and drive along in silence.

Superturd has never felt so quiet and empty. The interstate’s exit signs are spaced miles apart and I find myself hypnotized by the long stretch of blacktop in front of me.

Maybe
I
can
just
move
in
with
Dad.
He must be doing pretty well by now with all the acting jobs he’s been getting. I look down at the address. 162 West Sixty-Fourth Street. Apartment 4-F. I glance up, checking the boxes of comics in my rearview mirror. I’m really coming through for him, getting him his collection on time. That has to count for something, right?

I promise myself I won’t have any expectations whatsoever. I’ll just show up and see where things lead. I take in the broad sky above the passing mountains and feel hopeful about what I’ll find in New York.
Who
says
you
can’t run away from your troubles?

My phone buzzes, and I think it’s Mom calling yet again. She’s been leaving a series of messages that have gradually gone from angry to worried to officially freaked out. But a glance tells me it’s actually a helpful classmate texting to tell me I’m a stupid-ho-bag-slut for setting off the fire alarms.

I reach over and turn the static-maker back on.

• • •

The carnage along Interstate 80 can get to be a bit much after a while. Amid the strips of discarded tire rubber, there’s a virtual zoo of dead creatures. I pass one dead skunk, three deer, a groundhog of some sort, four opossums, and a completely mangled raccoon. It’s like a morbid game of Cows. As I pass a graveyard visible from the highway, I can’t help but think,
Ha, Blaze, everything’s dead
.

An ocean of striped cornfields flows by, and the hillsides grow increasingly more scarred by brown power-line paths. I near the half-way point, and the billboards grow more vivid and common.

My stomach growls a complaint since I’ve eaten nothing but pretzels all day. I shove the empty pretzel bag under my seat, then exit at the next green sign displaying a grid of fast food logos.

Pulling up to the pumps, I hold my breath as I swipe my gas card. I wait for alarms to sound, but the screen just asks me to “please select fuel grade.” Apparently Mema isn’t actually vindictive enough to mess with my gas card. After filling Superturd with gas, I hit a fast-food drive-through so I won’t have to talk to anyone other than the crazy-distorted voice-in-a-box that takes my order. I unpack my Arby’s Limited Time Offer BBQ Beef and Cheese and arrange it carefully on my lap before pulling back onto the interstate. Driving with one hand, I shove the sandwich into my mouth with the other. It feels good to be doing something so normal. Eating and driving. Anyone watching might mistake me for a regular girl.

I pass a long car with a back window filled with sun-bleached stuffed animals that I find oddly depressing. The elderly couple driving the car looks somber, although I imagine they must be headed someplace enjoyable. Even if it’s only to go bore their grandchildren with a complete history of Christian saints.

For a while I follow close behind a Winnebago, reading the mess of bumper stickers papering the back. There’s a large map of the United States covered with colored-in state-stickers, presumably marking all the states they’ve been to. So far, they’ve been everywhere except North Dakota and Mississippi. Before today, my map would have only had Pennsylvania and Ohio colored in. And, well, it would still only have Pennsylvania and Ohio colored in, but at least I’m way over to the right-hand side of Pennsylvania for the first time. And if things go as planned, I’ll be adding New Jersey and New York to my ‘been to’ states by tomorrow. It might still look pretty lame on a big ol’ chart with only four states colored in, but who the heck needs a stupid braggy map like that anyway?

Annoyed, I speed by the Winnebago and continue on, passing more trucks in the left-hand lane. My mind wanders with the open road, and I wonder if truckers have some sort of social hierarchy. Like, does a guy hauling a pile of logs mock a fellow who drives a truck for Bunce’s Bakery? I picture some big, burly guy taunting the poor baked-goods driver, saying, “What’cha hauling there buddy?” The burly guys shifts to a high-pitched girlie voice and mocks, “Cookies?” And the cookie driver hangs his head in shame. Maybe real life is actually like one giant high school experience.

As I contemplate that depressing thought, I slowly overtake a silver truck with purple mud-flaps. The mud-flaps have a silver horseshoe on each side, hanging luck side up. The sides of the truck are so reflective, it’s like a giant, rolling mirror-cube. As I pass it going uphill I look over and see the reflection of my minivan, with its faded pink flamejob and the bright pink spot covering up the word
SLUT!

And reflected from the driver’s window, I see myself. Unwashed pinkish hair thrown back into a ponytail. I swipe at what must be a glop of BBQ sauce on my chin and look again. My face is bare and exposed and innocent.

I look so much younger than I feel.

And I am sad for the beaten-down girl reflected back at me.

The marble of regret lodged deep under my ribs shifts with the first sob that comes out. I cry with restraint at first, but the sound of my own sobs is so pathetic that before long, I just break down and go with it—driving and crying as loud as I can. I cry for the humiliating picture and all the shame it has caused me. I cry for all the dirty looks and words flung at me by my classmates. And worse, the faceless mob online with their pitchfork comments. People who don’t even know me. Who couldn’t hope to know me.

I wail, not caring who can see me or possibly even hear me if their radios are off. I’m almost sound-barrier loud. As I cry, that painful marble dislodges and floats free in my chest for a few moments before it catches again and hangs on until another sob dislodges it.

My face gets numb from my crying, and yet I keep right on going.

I weep for literally miles and miles.

Finally, I’m spent and striving to push more tears out. I let out a wail and then wait for the silence to build again. Wail and wait. Wail and wait. Until a wide-mouthed wail morphs itself into a yawn and I drive in peace for a time.

The calm after all the crying feels good.

I just want to erase everything, like Galactus erasing a planet. I want to erase giving Mark a ride home and going out on our pathetic “dates,” and I want to erase ever wondering about what lay under his soccer shorts. Turns out, my fear of penises/peni is not completely unfounded. It starts seeming slightly hilarious that I managed to go from
Su-per Virgin Girl!
to
Su-per Slut!
in under three minutes. All I’d wanted was for Mark to keep playing with my tatas.

I give an involuntary nose-laugh.
Who
the
hell
gives
it
up
in
the
back
of
a
smelly
minivan
for
a
little
tata
tickling?
I say “tata tickling,” out loud and then giggle at how funny that sounds. I say it again, “tata tickling.” I start laughing so hard I switch back to sobbing.

This goes on, back and forth, tears and laughter, until finally, I’m so light-headed I decide I should probably pull over and take a break from driving. I pull into the next rest stop and park behind the squat, tan building, far removed from the other cars.

Josh has sent me a text letting me know he knows about the photo and asking how I’m doing. I think of calling him, but I don’t have anything comforting I can tell him at the moment. Instead, I send a text to Mom saying I’m staying at Amanda’s for a few days and I’m really sorry. Mom calls immediately.
Does
she
not
understand
the
purpose
of
a
text
is
to
avoid
a
phone
call?

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Oh my god, Blaze, I’ve been so worried about you!” From the sound of her voice, she’s telling the truth.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just having a sleepover at Amanda’s”

“Good for you, sweetheart. You should do more fun things with your friends.” I look at my phone, wondering if there’s a tracer on it of some sort.

“Um, okay? I will?”

In one big rush, Mom explains how she and my principal talked about what I’ve been going through. Mr. Hoovlen helped Mom see that I’ve been really hurting and need her support. Apparently those NASCAR-types run deep, because Mom sounds as if she’s been handed a clue. “We’ll have a long talk when you get home,” she says, and I can’t help but feel a little hopeful by the time we get off the phone. But still think,
if
I
come
home
, as I hang up. It may be best for everyone if I just start a fresh life with Dad.

I can imagine the Blazing Goddess taking on the world with her base of operations in Manhattan.
If
it’s good enough for Spider-Man, it’s good enough for me
.

Reclining my seat, I suddenly feel like I’ve been hit with a ray-gun and am nearly paralyzed with exhaustion. Driving for such a long time is tiring, but it’s the complete emotional meltdown that really took it out of me.

• • •

Tap!

Tap!

Tap!

At the sound of keys tapping on my front windshield, I nearly pee all over the front seat of the minivan. I’m having an awful nightmare, and I go from sleeping to wide awake and terrified in about zero-point-two seconds.

Tap!

Tap!

Tap!

When I see it isn’t the giant mob of pixilated protestors with chainsaws from my nightmare, I still don’t relax all that much.

It’s morning, and a middle-aged man peers through my windshield. His graying goatee widens into a smile as he sees I’m awake. He tips his John Deere baseball cap up and calls, “Hello!” as if he knows me or something. I instinctively cover my neck with my hands and shake my head no.

“It’s okay!” his voice is muffled through the glass. “Everyone’s been looking for you!”

I try to gauge just how crazy he is.

He calls over to his far left, “I found her, sweetie, she’s okay!”

Great, and he has a friend.
I squint to see if his friend is real or imaginary.

“Oh, thank goodness.” A shrill voice floats through the closed windows.
Oh
goodie. The friend’s real.
I sit up to take a peek at who’s been looking for me. A woman joins the man standing in front of my minivan, and she looks so happy to see me I wonder if I actually made friends with these people in my sleep. She wears her hair in a bun and has a big butterfly tattoo on the side of her neck, but in a classy way. She waves to me with long fingers that each sport huge silver rings. The couple’s genuine happiness at seeing me finally convinces me to turn the key partway in the ignition so I can roll my window down just a crack.

Together, they scurry over to peer through the opening, like I’m a zoo animal they’re admiring. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” I croak. My face feels like I’m wearing a too-small mask from all my vigorous crying last night.