The Muse (25 page)

I fidgeted. Bouncing my leg up and down, I tried to come up with something I could say to this boy that would alleviate the awkward breaks in between Larry’s atrocious singing. I tried things out in my mind like ‘Hey, so what do you do when you’re not hanging with Larry?’ and ‘So, I hear you hang out at the community center a lot.’ I bored myself with these tired and useless fillers and just surrendered to the silence.

Larry pulled into the parking lot of Savage Mills and parked in front of the Terrapin ZipLine and Adventure Park. “I would never do that,” I said.

“Never say never.” Larry climbed out of the car with a smile too broad to mean anything good.

“I’m not zip lining,” I said, climbing out and meeting his grin.

Travis climbed out and stared up at the nets and the lines. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” Joy sprang from his eyes, lighting up his face and erasing the look of a teenager who just tried to kill himself and more like one who spent summers at camp laughing with all of his friends.

The sun peeked through the cover of trees, and screams and laughter filled the air. My heart bucked. “Do you really want to do this?” I asked him.

Travis looked down at me, his eyes filled with sparkles and hope. “More than anything.” He pulled in his bottom lip. “Do it. Don’t be afraid.”

Our eyes locked in a moment of shared delight. “I’m going to throw up.”

“It’ll be okay. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We die.”

He shrugged and a smile crept on his face. “Exactly. So, big deal, right? We’re going to die eventually. Let’s enjoy some fun while we’re on the way to it.”

His smile erupted into a chuckle and before long the two of us started cracking up. Larry joined in and then the three of us, arm-in-arm, bounded toward the building to sign our release forms and to get busy living.

We left our troubles and insecurities behind and embraced the air blowing through us as we whizzed down the zip line laughing, hooting and giggling like little kids at the playground.

A funny thing happens when people fly through the air. Their insecurities and fears vanish. Another funny thing happens. Like with alcohol, people tend to loosen up after sharing such a rush and they start to act like those people they swore they’d never act like. For me, after we landed and welcomed our new adventurous vibes to set in, I turned to Travis and told him I had once tried to commit suicide when I was just about his age. Mine ended in an epic failure because I didn’t know how to properly secure a knot in the noose I built.

He nodded without judgment.

A few minutes later, we sat together, laughing and sipping strawberry smoothies with tapioca pearls, watching as Larry continued zooming down the zip line, cutting in front of others to get his rush.

“Why didn’t you just take some pills after the rope thing didn’t work?” He asked.

I squared off at him. “Because when I fell to the ground I realized I enjoyed the new air filtering into my lungs.”

“Were you happy after that?”

“Not at all.”

“What kept you going?”

“Every night, I’d lie in my bed rubbing a rock I found in my father’s garden and would dream of the life I eventually wanted to live. This kept me going.”

“Are you living that life?”

I reflected on his question, careful not to burst the bubble I so carefully inflated for his sake. “Partially.”

“The day before I almost blew my head off with a gun, I had been released from Howard County General Hospital. I still had deep purple bruises over my entire body, including my face. My eye was just about opening up again at that point. The doctors had told my parents when I first arrived in the ambulance that I might suffer brain damage. Apparently the kicks to my head were so severe the damage could’ve affected my speech and possibly even my higher level brain function. I improved. My cousin, Jacques, hasn’t. He’s still in a coma. They just transferred him to a hospital closer to his hometown about two hundred miles from here. He was visiting for a family reunion and came with me when the group attacked. I caused this, even though the therapist tells me I didn’t mean for this to happen, so therefore I am vindicated from carrying the burden with me for the rest of my life.”

The air closed in around me. My chest ached. The pain etched on his face tore at me, ripped me open and exposed a pain so raw, so buried, I cried out in a wince. He comforted me with a gentle smile. “I’m okay. I am.”

“Why would you blame yourself for something others did?” Even as I asked this I understood the culpability of the ego and its evil manner of absorbing all shockwaves and suffering through the concussions of ill fate brought on by no means of our own. Yet, people like me and Travis soaked it up and took it on anyway, blaming ourselves for things completely outside of our control and hiding from the things that were within our control.

“I take full blame. I dragged him to a place I never should’ve ventured. I needed a ride. I knew he wouldn’t judge. So, I asked him to take me to meet someone. We planned that he would wait in the car while I met him by the lakeside. But when he saw four of them jump on top of me and start beating me, he jumped in to rescue. Someone set me up. Apparently, according to the police, this kind of thing is happening more.”

“So you never met the person you were going to meet?”

“I answered an ad that seemed to talk straight to me. The person sought a black male who enjoyed English literature and Mozart. They targeted me.”

“Do you know who did this?”

“I have my suspicions and offered them to the police. No evidence though.” He slurped his smoothie.

“You can’t carry this guilt with you.”

“I don’t know how to get rid of it.”

And, I didn’t know what to tell him. I could only shrug and swallow the sadness along with the tapioca.

# #

I went home and messaged with Eva about Travis. I spoke about his pain, about his guilt, about his desire to want to help others facing similar circumstances. Eva latched onto this, counseling me through my sadness for him, helping me to sort through something that ran deeper than our flirts and this silly CarefreeJanie game I played with her.

“He’ll come out ahead,” she wrote. “Bullied kids who survive attacks are the strongest.”

She opened the window. I could fly right through it with my truth. Swoop in and be rescued by her beautiful embrace, her soft smile, her generous care. But I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her love. “I didn’t know what to say to him. He asked me how to get rid of the guilt. I just shrugged and sipped on my smoothie.”

“Oh, honey, don’t beat yourself up over that. How would you know how to deal with this kind of pressure?”

The air circulated in the window of opportunity, welcoming me to fly through and unleash my troubles. I could spill my sorry story at last, allow her to get to know the real me, the weak me, the vulnerable me, the me who couldn’t stand up for herself and allowed others to kick her and pelt her and destroy her.

Fuck no. I wanted her to see me as strong, vibrant, a pillar of gentility and character. “He’s such a sweet soul and wants to do something positive.”

“He should take all of that negative energy and do something positive with it, something purposeful.”

“Like what?”

“Imagine the power he would gain if he could do something to save others and bring awareness?”

“That would be incredible.”

“My heart is soaring right now. I’ve got a flood of ideas swimming around my mind. I see it all being played out in front of me.”

“Share please,” I wrote. My heart pumped new life.

“Let’s do a short film. You write it. I act in it along with some of my actor friends. I’ll produce it, edit it, add the background and dubbing and then we can have Travis showcase it.”

My heart beat wildly. “So, a documentary-type thing?”

“It needs to be heartfelt. It needs to tug. It needs to expose raw feelings. It needs to anger people and will them to take a stand against bullying.”

Ideas swam in my mind. I saw bullies, victims, and champions. I saw defeat and mercy. I saw bittersweet trials and victorious wins. I saw reality meshing with drama and forming a memorable scene that would have parents talking to their kids and teachers protecting their students. The film would produce one voice, one stand, one community working together to bring awareness and peace to those who might otherwise travel down the lonely despairing road of tragedy and fear. “Where will he showcase it?”

“We could orchestrate a regional or even national anti-bullying conference and have him present this short film along with his story to countless people who will then circulate beyond our wildest dreams.”

I’d have to meet her. I couldn’t turn back. I couldn’t act on my selfishness any longer, not with something as important as this resting in the balance. This was about a boy named Travis and hundreds of thousands of other kids just like him. “Your enthusiasm is coming through my computer screen.”

“We have to do this,” she wrote.

“We will.”

“Go get writing honey.”

My heart zoomed out of control.

# #

My fingers couldn’t keep up with my mind. The story unrolled ahead of me, unfurling in a straight line with no wrinkles, no bumps, just plush and fantastical as could be. The grandest audience could bear witness and never imagine for one moment that an ordinary girl with a wall decorated in rejection letters could tell such a perfect story. The ideas popped into my mind and flowed. I only had to picture Eva reading it with her eyes wide open, a smile hinged on her face, a crisp nod of approval at the brilliance of the words to open the spigot and release everything my heart and soul had been gripping to for the past decade and a half of my life. Everything I ever wanted to say to those fools who bullied me, everything Travis wanted to say to those idiots who placed a gun in his mouth and almost forced him to pull a trigger, everything every bully in every school across the world ever said to a scared child, released into this story that bore witness to the unnerving problem this country faced because of scared, spineless bullies. These words needed to spike their way into the bloodstream of every person and cause them to jump to their feet and stare straight into the eyes of the residual ferocity of insults, rock pelting, kicking, beating, and vicious attack on the countless mental states of innocent people just trying to stand on their feet and create a life worth living. We needed to give victims a voice, a chance at a normalcy, the opportunity to bring out the best in themselves and others and to leave a legacy of friendship, truth, justice, and love behind.

My main character took me on a journey, weaving me into his brain and allowing me to see through his eyes. He taught me in those four hours it took me to write the short story that being strong required standing up for what he believed in and not for stomping out what he didn’t. Heroes came in many shapes and forms, but the underlying string of serving others in time of need tied them all together. His name would be Sean and he would rise to the occasion despite risking his reputation, his beautiful face, his place in the world of Hope High School. Sean would befriend the victim, would share a lunch table with him, would offer him a safe walk to class, would help him find his value so he could showcase it and earn the support of many. Before long, using the tactic of ignore and avoid by means of shifting focus to other more positive actions, the victim becomes the next hero who would be willing to help defend the honor of those who came after him and needed a gentle nudge towards their greatness. A movement would start—a heroes’ movement, and every good soul would want to take part. By taking someone under his wing who needed it, standing up for those in need and offering help, lending his guidance, confidence, and strong support, he forged a lasting impact in someone's life.

I spent another two hours refining the story before going to bed. When I rose three hours later, I read it again with fresher eyes. My heart soared. The sense of empowerment tickled my core. I couldn’t wait to share it with Eva.