Punk Like Me (34 page)

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PUNK LIKE ME

Just before my eyes popped open in the early-morning darkness, I thought, oh thank God, it was only a dream. That is, until I heard my father’s steps thumping down toward the end of the hallway.

“Lowlife fuckin’ piece of shit, can’t wait till you get out,” he cursed, and his footsteps paused by my door. “Get out, bitch, get out,” he stage-whispered at the door, then slammed into the bathroom with such a loud bang that Nanny actually woke.

“Nina, what did you do now?” she asked me, her voice both sleepy and exasperated.

“Nothing, Nanny,” I told her honestly, “nothing but tell the truth.

Go back to sleep.”

“Must’ve been some truth,” she muttered, and I heard her roll back over.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I stayed awake and I remembered—I was mad at Nanny, I was done with Joey, I was beyond belief at my father’s machinations, and forget about “Aunt Kathy.” I hated her anyway. I had to talk to Nicky.

I remembered I was bereft—my mother didn’t love me anymore, because the simple little fact that I might actually be gay outweighed every other quality and facet I had; this little thing carried enough weight to wipe her heart clear of me.

I was alone.

It was a bizarre feeling, lying in that bed, still living there but knowing I wasn’t a part of the family anymore, not in any real sense. I was a stranger to them all now, yet still one among their number.

I had to think, I had to plan, I had to Þ gure out what I was going to do. I was old enough to drop out, leave, and get a job doing something,

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but that wouldn’t be living, really, and a GED had never been on my horizon. I had to think about it now, though; there was a good chance it would be a part of my future.

I needed to raise cash and fast, too. Tuition wasn’t fully paid for the whole year yet; swim team fees had to be met; I was supposed to get new uniforms, if I was staying at my school. I needed money to get to school, too, and lunch and stuff like that.

Okay, I would go through a normal day and start making some inquiries at lunch and after school about transferring if I had to, if it was possible, but I’d still need money for later. And I remembered I still had some cash left from the weekend and my emergency stash behind the washing machine—that’s where I put my money, so it wouldn’t get

“borrowed” by my siblings, especially Nanny, who seemed to live by the philosophy “what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.” Aside from that, though, I also had a small joint account with my grandmother that was supposed to be for college, and once a month, I’d take the money from behind the washing machine and put it in the bank. I’d be using that soon, too, I guessed.

My father Þ nished his morning ritual, and once I heard the door close to his bedroom, I decided to get moving. My plan so far was to leave after he did. Because the school opened very early, I could sit in homeroom and do some thinking there. Also, I didn’t want to see anyone that morning, either in the house or on the way to school, so I could avoid that if I was early enough.

I sat up and swung my legs over the edge and was brought short by pain, blinding pain, in my head, my back, my neck, everywhere.

Nausea hit me like a Þ st to the gut, and dizziness slapped my head around. I bit my lip to stop from vomiting and tasted blood. I’d opened the cuts on my mouth again.

I forced myself to stand up and fumbled my way across the room in the dark. I felt for my uniform in the closet, and Þ nding it with my Þ ngers, I grabbed it, wincing and inhaling sharply at the pain that lanced across my ribs when I raised my arm.

I stumbled but quickly recovered, then went to the dresser by the door and, feeling around, found underwear and socks. I was good to go.

I steadied myself a moment against the waves of nausea and the sloping ß oor, then quietly made my way out of the room, to the bathroom.

I heard my father go downstairs. Everyone else was still asleep; I was the only one he ever woke up anyway. I quietly shut and locked

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that door behind me before I turned on the light, and I was sorry when I did. Not only did the brightness hurt my eyes, but I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that ran the length of the sink and accompanying counter.

Shit. I looked like shit. My T-shirt, which had been white, had been drenched down the front in blood and slime, was spattered everywhere with fat drops of dried blood, and one sleeve was totally ensanguined and had dried brown, stiff, and wrinkled. That must have been where I’d hidden my face when I was on the ß oor. My shorts had blood on them, the hem of one leg was stained halfway up. I must have sat in a puddle of the red goo. Well, at least I didn’t piss myself, I thought, and tried to smile, but that was painful, and that’s when I actually looked at my face for the Þ rst time.

Oh my God, my lips were crusted black and so swollen; I saw at least three major splits and one jagged tear along the corner, where a ring had caught. I tried to push the little ß ap of skin back over the wound, but there was too much crusted blood there to let that happen.

I inspected my teeth—still there, and they were also black and brown with blood.

I raised my eyes to the rest of my face, and the view didn’t really get much better—my cheek was a deÞ nite light blue and swollen from the impact with—well, what did I call her now? Mom was out.

Mrs. Boyd? Ma’am? The person who bore but now hates me?—that woman’s hand, and there were scratches near my eyes. Two lines ran down my cheek, where her rings had caught my skin, and the lines were still open, pink and puffy. I reached for the peroxide, catching myself with pain again, then saw the other side.

I had a light purplish-blue circle under my left eye, which itself was slightly swollen, and a cloudy dark blue band across the bridge of my nose. I gingerly touched it—ouch! I wouldn’t do that again anytime soon. I turned my head gently from side to side. My ears were both full of dried blood, and it had gotten matted in the hair right above them.

I was never going to get that out. Carefully, I placed peroxide where I could, then rinsed my mouth out with it.

I examined myself again and considered. I slid the mirror and dug around, not sure what I was searching for until I found it: hair scissors and a hair buzzer. If I did this fast, I could be done before the noise woke anyone up. There was so much blood dried in there from cuts on my scalp, and I clipped the matted hair as close to the skin as I could.

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When I couldn’t cut anymore, I used the buzzers, and I had to go up about an inch, inch and a half. The buzz lines on the sides of my head were now level to a single Þ nger width above my eyebrows. I inspected my handiwork, then evened it out on both sides, but it still looked a little weird. The strands that come down in front of the ears were just, well, not right. If only I could just get rid of that, get a nice clean line.

I spied my father’s razor, which my mom and I were forbidden to use on our legs.

Fuck him. He thought he knew what was fuckin’ punk? He knew shit. Liar.

I put a little soap and water on each side and carefully, very carefully, shaved the “sideburns” or whatever they’re called. I shaved until there was a straight, neat line, right above the ear.

There. It was even and it was done. I cleaned everything off and put all the tools away, wiped the hair off the counter, and ß ushed it.

Stripping off my stained and destroyed clothes, and believe me, the undressing process was slow, as every motion produced pain, I Þ nally maneuvered into the shower, and another wave of dizziness washed over me.

I leaned against the tile wall to regain my equilibrium, then Þ nally got down to business. I had bruises everywhere, dark, livid, eggplant purple and cornß ower blue, some mottled blue and purple, like speckled eggs. No, on further inspection, they didn’t look like speckled eggs; they looked like brains.

Damn! I remembered I was supposed to have gym that day, fuck.

Sweatpants for me. I was going to swear up and down that I’d forgotten my shorts. No, amend that, sweatshirt, too—my arms were also covered in scratches and bruises.

Aw fuck, I wore a skirt, too. Okay, I was going to wear pants into school and change when I got there. If I wore opaque white stockings and tucked my legs under my desk all day, no one would see them. I’d wear my blazer or a sweater all day, too. And as for my face, well, I didn’t have a true Mohawk, a thin strip down the center. I had a wide band that came down to my temples. The rest of my hair was really long, so I’d just keep bent over my books and suck on some ice cubes, hold a Coke can to my face, bring the swelling down. Problem solved.

Done washing and brushing and attempting to hide or correct the just-got-mugged-by-mom-n-dad-’cuz-they-hate-me look, I slipped on my underwear and socks.

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I spared a glance at my destroyed clothes and made a quick decision: I folded them neatly, with the blood on top, and left them on the counter. Let Mrs. Whoever she was to me now explain that to Nicky and Nanny; I’m sure she’d be able to think of something. SatisÞ ed, I ran as quietly as I could down the stairs, uniform in hand.

Down in the basement, I got some clothes and reached behind the machine for the box I kept my money in. Finally, I snagged and pulled it out. It was an old metal Band-Aid box with a ß ip-top lid, and effective, may I add, in holding all my adolescent earnings.

Dressed, a couple of bucks in hand, I went back up to the main ß oor to get my gym bag and my school bag. I passed the dining table where I had left my note the night before; it was still there. God, my head hurt.

On impulse, I snatched it up and tore it in two, then went to throw it away in the kitchen, where I saw my schedules on the refrigerator, my classes and teachers, practices and meets, all listed. There were pictures of all three of us from the annual school picture-taking fest. No, wait, there were only pictures of Nanny and Nicky.

A hunch made me look into the newly bagged garbage pail. My picture was there. I pulled it out and stared at with shaking Þ ngertips, tracing the edges of what my face used to look like.

Suddenly, I was angry, just so damn infuriated, I tore the schedules and my picture up and threw them on the ß oor. I stared down at them, wondering if Þ re was going to come out of my nostrils. I turned around, and in the dining room, I spied the certiÞ cates and trophies I’d earned over the years on a shelf. In one instant I swept them all out into one arm, marched back into the kitchen, dumped them in the garbage, picked the papers up, put them there too, then put my picture on top.

Fine. Throw me out, hate me, God damn it, but don’t dare fucking use my accomplishments to show off. Those were mine. I sweated for them, worked and suffered for them. Me, the piece-of-shit bitch. The same monster lowlife they hated had earned every single one of those fucking shiny things they were so proud of. It was a package deal, baby.

Love what I can do, better love me, too, or kiss the whole fucker good-bye.

I heard footsteps sound across the ß oor upstairs as my mother walked across her room to the door and opened it, then continued down the hall. “Nicky, honey, time to get up,” I heard her call into his room.

I was disgusted and nauseated. I spat on the pile and left, slamming the door behind me, not caring for once who heard or woke. The air was

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very cold, and my breath came out in little gray clouds.

The walk to the train station was a carousel of pain—the ache in my head, the dizziness, and most especially the nausea forcing me to stop every block or so—but eventually I got there, climbing the steps and everything to the platform.

It was empty so I wandered around a bit, and I noticed that under the platform itself, and behind it, lay tons of cans and beer bottles—it was really messy under there. They all had a Þ ve-cent deposit on them.

Okay, then, as of tomorrow, I’d bring another bag with me, and I’d climb under the platform and pick up the bottles and cans. I could keep them in my gym bag, then take them over after school to the local grocery store and redeem them. That would be some money, anyway—

better than nothing.

What if I had to get an apartment? Who would rent a place to a kid who’d gotten kicked out of their parents’ home? They’d probably think I was a criminal or something. And what if the landlord went through my stuff or something?

I had to keep going to my school. It was the only place that had a 92 percent scholarship rate for its graduates. That’s why I was going there in the Þ rst place, and okay, if I didn’t take the ROTC one or an academy appointment, there had to be other scholarships, right? I’d just have to suck it up at “home,” or whatever it was, the place I was permitted to sleep and breathe, and get myself a scholarship.

The Þ rst part of my plan for the day went well enough. I got into the rather empty school building and changed, then just sat quietly in homeroom, going over my homework, studying. It was hard to pay attention, though, because I felt so nauseous, and my body just ached everywhere.

I know Sister Carlos eventually asked me about my absence note, but I don’t remember what I told her. In fact, I don’t really remember too much about my classes that day, because at some point, I do remember being walked by someone to the principal’s ofÞ ce—I can’t for the life of me remember what class it was, could have been English, it might even have been math (but I hope not, that would have been humiliating in front of Sister Attila)—and being led into the nurse’s room.

The very next thing I do remember, though, is feeling an ache in my head and sides that was related somehow to the bitter taste in my mouth. I was lying down on my side, and for some reason I kept

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