Out of Blue Comes Green, page 5
It hits me when I’m stepping outside into the frigid air in the student parking lot: I’ve just agreed to go on a date with a girl. And she thinks I’m a boy. A shiver ricochets through me, but it’s not entirely unpleasant.
Chapter 7
SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. THE SECOND I’m out of the building, I regret saying yes. I turn the key in my car’s ignition, my ears numb because my stupid jacket doesn’t have a hood. I do not want to go to a play with Madi whatever-her-name-is. Shit. If it wasn’t a school assignment …
The engine won’t start. I turn the key again. It sputters a bit but dies. Shit. I just want to go home.
I draw my shoulders in, trying to warm up. I do not need to be stuck in the student parking lot in the dead of winter. I check the side mirror. Lots of students heading to their cars, most with friends, most not wearing enough clothes for today’s frigid temp. Some jock boys in shorts. Stupid. Just like me.
I turn the key a third time, and the sputtering finally brings the car to life. I lower the pedal, feeding the engine slowly so it won’t die again. I glance to the side mirror, only to see it completely darkened with someone’s black winter jacket. There’s a pounding on my window so hard the glass could break.
My elbow slams down the lock button. One of JT’s friends. Kirk. Dirk. Dickhead. Something like that. He gets too close.
“JT wanted me to check on you.” He yells this as if I wouldn’t be able to hear. “Your car’s a piece of shit.” He steps back, eyeing my wheels. “Yep. That’s a real piece of shit.”
My heart hammers as I shift into reverse and rev the engine.
“He wants to know what you’re doing tonight.” Dirk the Dickhead sneers at me. So hilarious.
I press down on the gas, the tires sputtering against the hardened snow, car lurching back. I nearly hit him as I turn the wheel. He swears at me, but I keep going out of the lot and toward home.
Once there, I shut myself in my room, shedding my leather jacket and Vans before dropping onto my bed. I press my head to the pillow, rest my arms at my sides. Everything is all right. I’m safe. Music through my headphones begins to mute everything from today. JT fades. Tiyana’s glare, Danny’s questioning eyes. The locker room girls. But no matter how far into the music I descend, I can’t make Madi go away. Her light blue eyes implore me to go to the play, darkened cheeks and her stupidly shy smile say she likes me. And her damned enthusiasm—as if life isn’t torturous.
Cold fingers wrap around my wrist, making my arms flail, knocking off my headphones. Mom. Her lips, a straight line across her face, open for too long before she says, “You need to get ready.”
I forgot. Across my bedroom hanging from the top of the closet door is a gray and black dress that I unfortunately recognize. “I’m not wearing that.”
My mother’s sigh fills the room. “Kayla, we’ve been over this.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Just once I’d like to have a decent family picture. Just once.”
With your son and daughter. “Just let me wear this.” I pull at my flannel’s collar.
That doesn’t warrant a reply from my mom. “At the department store, you said the colors looked cool.” She flips up one of the sleeves on the dress.
Yeah, ’cause that was the only dress that didn’t have pink or lavender or flowers or lace.
“You said you would wear this.”
If you made me. I said if you made me.
She stomps to my dresser, then throws a ball of black tights at me. “Fifteen minutes, Kayla. Then we’re leaving.”
I’m not putting on tights.
“We aren’t going without you.” Her words are more a threat than a solution, as if she’ll come back, stick me in the dress herself, and carry my ass to the car.
She probably would.
I pluck up the tights, whipping them at the pink-painted wall, wanting them to explode on impact. Instead, they bounce against my San Antonio Spurs poster and drop to the floor.
As if telepathic, my mother appears in my room again, plucks up the tights, then opens my top dresser drawer. She comes to me with tools for my humiliation: the tights and a bra. The latter she shoves into my hand, waiting until I have accepted it. Her expression communicates exactly what she wants: no binder. “Fifteen minutes.”
She has lectured me about this for weeks. When Sam is home from college, we’ll have a photo shoot for the family, and she’ll have her manly husband, her studious son, and her effeminate daughter all around her.
I need to get out of here. Take off in my car. To hell with Mom’s picture. I don’t want one more photo of me looking like a fucking female.
I grab my phone, frantically typing about the dress, the tights, the hate in my mother’s voice. I’m about to send it to Libby when someone knocks.
Dad inches the door open. “Hey, kiddo. This is really important to your mother. You’re going to look great.”
“I doubt it.”
These words bring him inside the room instead of driving him away. He sits beside me on my bed. “I don’t want to hear any more of that. It doesn’t matter what the kids at school say. You’re a beautiful girl.”
First of all, no. And second, just stab me in the heart, Dad. It’d be easier.
“You know, Sam has to go back to college in a few days.”
I know. My brother Sam has classes starting for the end of his sophomore year. I’ve hardly seen him, and he’s leaving.
Dad’s arm encircles my shoulders, hugging me to him. He loves his daughter, Kayla. I rest my head on his chest. He’s solid and smells so clean. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, seizing my momentary sanity. Perhaps that’s the one and only perk of being a girl: He hasn’t hugged Sam since ninth grade.
Rising, he pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Ten minutes.”
I smile until he closes the door behind him. Then swear to myself.
Tights are ridiculous. I do not understand why women wear these things. And the dress, it leaves me completely vulnerable from below. I pull at the sleeves to make them sit at my elbows, but the elastic rolls back, leaving the fabric perky and prim at the top of my arms. When I pull down again, I hear a thread pop. Mom will have a fit.
I glance at my enemy, the full-sized mirror on my closet door. In this outfit, I’m six years old. How can I do this to myself? I’m a hypocrite. A fake.
I scowl at the pink wall.
Grabbing my phone, I read over my unsent message to Libby. Never mind. I don’t need to tell her all of this. She’ll want to talk, and then I’ll have to relive it. Once I’ve deleted, it dings. It’s a reply from Libby. Wait, I didn’t send that message, did I?
No. It’s not there. And Libby’s text is about the stupid prom. I’m creating a list of songs we should learn for prom.
I don’t even want to know.
Some prom favorites like “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Single Ladies.”
I am not reading the rest of this list. This is not my music.
I text her back: I don’t think Bekkah’s dad will be impressed with pop music.
Three dots. Lots of great indie groups do cool spins on lame tunes. Then she starts listing.
I can’t deal with who Libby wants me to be and what my mom thinks I am at the same time, so I don’t reply.
I pat down the front of the dress. No pockets. Where do they think I’ll put my phone? Screw this. I throw open the door, phone in hand, and nearly run into Sam in the hall. He’s in a suit and tie and looks like a damn adult. Eyeing me up and down, his brows rise. “What am I looking at here, Kay?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Mom’s idea?”
I snort. “She wants to have nice pictures.” I make my mom voice for the last part.
He starts to argue, then simply nods. He knows what Mom’s like.
By the back door, my mother and father wait. Except for the scowl on her face, Mom looks gorgeous. Dad looks cool. He’s got some great ties. This one has chevrons in blue and green. I picked it out for his last birthday. Dad fist bumps my brother, then smooths down Sam’s blazer with an approving nod. “Very respectable, son.”
Sam pulls at the bottom of his shirt to straighten it.
As she clicks toward me in her heels, Mom’s nostrils flare, her scrutinizing eyes examining my clothes. Before she can demean me, Sam steps forward like he wants a private word with her, but I can hear him; he’s not trying to be quiet. “Why don’t you let her wear something else?”
Mom takes a physical step backward. “What?”
“Let her wear something she’d actually wear. The picture’ll be so fake if she’s in a dress.”
Mom’s face goes blank. Confusion, maybe?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad nodding.
Sam says, “Jeans and a flannel?”
Mom shakes her head, taking the last few steps over to me. “Did you even comb this rat’s nest?” She picks at my messy—very stylish—hair, finger combing my bangs to the side. They weren’t cut to hang anywhere but down into my eyes. With a grunt, she ushers me into the bathroom where she tries to make my short hair look feminine. “If we had time, I could at least curl the ends …” She trails off as she realizes there aren’t any ends to curl. Frowning at me in the mirror, she says, “I wish you hadn’t done this to yourself,” as if I’ve cut off my nose instead of my hair.
Like a clamp, she holds my chin, reaching for her mascara tube. “Hold still.”
“Stop.” I push the tiny brush away, but her vice grip clenches my chin unwaveringly. I grit my teeth. She’s kinder to my eyes than I expected, though they still come away dark black and not me. Please no lipstick. She reaches for the brightest, pinkest one she has, but stops. “You’ll lick all of this away by the time we get there anyway.” She steps behind me, assessing my girl-ified appearance. “Well, it’s a little better.”
Returning to the door, I hope my brother will say I look ridiculous. He doesn’t.
I slip my feet into my Vans.
“Kayla!” Mom is horrified, glaring at my feet.
“My shoes aren’t going to be in the picture.”
“You are not walking around with us at the mall wearing tennis shoes with a dress.” Her arms are crossed now, like she’s barring the door.
I dig my nails into my skin to keep from kicking my shoes off in her direction, in her face, even, and go back to my room for the right shoes.
“Come on, Mom. I only have three days before I’m due back. She could’ve worn those.” Sam argues for me while I’m upstairs, slipping my feet into some cutesy black pumps Mom bought me a month ago when we got the damn dress, but he doesn’t make any progress by the time I return to them.
When I reach for my jacket, Mom pulls my hand away. “You’ll wrinkle your dress.”
“It’s cold outside.” My tone is as harsh as I wanted it.
She shakes her head. “No one’s wearing a jacket. Let’s go.”
Now that my shoes meet Mom’s approval and my exposed skin will cause hypothermia, we’re allowed to get into the car. I finally have time to be truly horrified. Lakeside Mall. With its movie theater and food court, it’s the hang out place for most of my school. I can’t stand it. Libby and I generally go to Emerald Isle Pizza on the other side of town or Caribou just down the street when we want to chill. Libby knows what it’s like to be picked on, too, so we both like that not many people from Lakeside go to Emerald Isle or Caribou. At the mall, though, we’re bound to run into someone.
Kindly, the lot has fewer cars than I expected. Still, as I pass Dad holding the entrance door for me, I clutch my phone tightly. Anyone could be inside, even JT because I know he hangs out here. He cannot see me like this. Not ever again.
The route to the portrait studio—the only remaining portrait studio in town—passes by the food court, which, based on the noise level, is teeming with teens. Possibly the whole high school is here. It’s a freaking school night, people. Go home and study. My whole body flushes.
Please not Christine. Anyone else. Everyone else. Not Christine.
Mom’s staccato heel clicks complement Dad’s clomps. My brother strides beside them like the priceless gem they think he is. Keeping pace, I crouch behind Sam, grasping the edge of his suit jacket and then changing my mind.
The food court swarms with high school girls. Most are on their phones, slurping Icees or Diet Cokes. Sam waves at the nearest table we pass. Three juniors. I don’t know them, but at the next table I see Tiyana and her basketball friends. My old friends from middle school. No eye contact, thank God.
I pick up my pace to catch Dad who’s far out in front of us.
Near the clumps of girls are pods of boys with trays piled high. Tacos, burgers, shakes, fries, pizza. From the crowd, a gruff voice yells out my brother’s name. Sam stops when he sees who it is, a smile spreading across his face. He vigorously shakes the guy’s hand. “Son of a bitch. You got huge!”
“Been putting up a lot of weight, man.” Oh, no. I know that voice. JT Swanson. They used to wrestle together. He waggles his eyebrows at me, then takes a more serious look. His gaze invades areas of my body that I would never invite him into.
For some reason, instead of keeping my pace with Dad, I’ve stopped with my brother. Go, I tell myself, but I don’t.
JT gives Sam a shove. “How’s college treating you?”
“You know, too much studying.”
JT inspects my dress, my body. “And this, of course, is your little sister.” He acts like we hardly know each other. Like we don’t have this grating, unpleasant relationship. Inching closer, he whispers to me, “You look so good as a girl.” His fingers caress the inside of my arm near my chest.
Disgust shudders down my back, inch by inch. I’m about to put my fist up his nose when Sam steps in, shoving JT away. “What the hell?” He steps into JT’s space.
I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.
JT, to my surprise, doesn’t laugh it off. Instead, he holds his hands up.
I need to get away from here. Catch up to Dad. I cannot let anyone else see me. Backing up a few steps, I nearly trip over the chair behind me. JT catches my arm, so I don’t fall, which only makes me pull away. Hard. So now when I hit the chair again, it moves, despite the person sitting in it. Everything stands still when I meet her stunned hazel eyes. Christine.
Her friends’ mouths drop open. The tall one says, “Oh, my God.” She laughs so hard she spits out Diet Coke before she can cover her mouth. “Are you wearing mascara?”
Christine says, “Stop it. That’s really mean,” but she’s not unamused.
The pointy-eared friend glowers at me. “Is that what you really look like?”
My fancy shoes slip as I flounder away. I catch myself on Christine’s chair to keep from wiping out. And now I’m off center. I can’t run. Can’t hurry. These stupid shoes. I can’t fall in front of all of them. Not farther than I already have.
I break away, the guffaws behind me fading into ambient noise. I’m shaking. JT’s breath in my ear, his skin on my skin, the look on Christine’s face. I can never make her unsee this.
Mom and Dad reach the studio, and I rush in with Sam following. Squeezing myself down a row of tripods, I hunch down. I’m going to vomit. My head spins, but I can find nothing to steady myself. Then someone has my arm. Sam.
“You want me to punch him in the face?”
What? I breathe in. Out.
“He’s always been such an asshat.”
He thinks I’m upset about JT. Though it’s tempting to have Sam give JT a bloody nose, I shake my head to tell him it’s not a big deal, though it’s a huge deal. My stupid past with JT is such a mess. Why can’t he leave me alone?
Sam’s hand on my shoulder allows me to close my eyes. I imagine I can tell him about Christine, that he’ll understand, that he has my back.
Softly, he says, “Say the word and he’s dead.”
“It’s not him.” My voice sounds so angry.
Confusion covers his face as he tries to piece it together. Then it hits him. “That girl.”
I close my eyes, clenching my fists hard.
Dad appears beside us. “Come on, guys. It’s time.”
Sam squeezes my shoulder. Is that it?
I nod sullenly, averting my gaze.
He cringes. It’s as bad as I thought. I know it. Sam knows it. Christine knows it.
Gently, Dad pulls Sam away from me, and while I’m thinking my dad is clueless, he takes hold of my hand and guides me to our studio room. Though he doesn’t say anything, his ample fingers around mine make me feel safe. Momentarily.
Crossed arms and a pouty face broadcast that my mother is anything but patient right now. So the photographer talks backdrops with her and double, triple checks his camera. Then he wastes no more time in continuing my embarrassment. He places us all in front of the blue-gray backdrop, my parents beside each other, gently shifted to exactly where he wants them. He arranges my brother beside my mother, so she’s sandwiched between her big, strong men. Me? I get the submissive chair in the front beneath them all. “Sit right there, miss,” he says. And he says it a few more times since I don’t sit right away. “Miss?”
Fine. I am the youngest. I’ll pretend that’s why I have to sit.
The photographer then tells my dad and brother to rest a hand on my shoulder. “Perfect.” He admires his patriarchal work, motioning us to stay as if we’re his trained Labradoodles. Flash, flash, flash. “Smile everyone.” Flash, flash. “Young lady, smile pretty.” Picture after picture.
“Now one with just the kids.” He presses Sam and me together like we’re married instead of siblings. “Tilt your head toward your brother, sweetheart.”
To my brother: “Straight and tall, young man. Keep those shoulders broad.”
Excruciating. Flash, flash, flash.
After, we wander around the photo shop while we wait for the results. The glass front of the store lets me see out into the mall toward the food court. I direct my wanderings to the back among the tripods again so no one can see me. Still, I stay behind some shelves, keeping an eye out.
