It’s been a rough-and-tumble day so I’m tired

Today, Mrs. Grit told me to write down what I tell her. I said, “Why the hell would I do that? Haven’t I already let out my emotions enough?”

She said, “Writing it down and being able to read it back later will help you. It will be interesting and educational.”

Sometimes, when Mrs. Grit gets all proper, she bugs the shit out of me. This is one of those times. But, I’ll do what she says. She might even be right: when I’m all Fixed and not crazy, then maybe I’ll read this back and laugh and think, “I was such a loser.” Man, that’ll feel good because I’ll know that I’ve really started another stage of my life.

If I have to start with my issues, it’ll have to be the day I was born. As soon as I was old enough to understand what she was saying, my mom (in her very drugged-out way) would tell me this story. She’d tell me, “I had you and I took one look at your fucking ugly face and I said, ‘Take it away.’ I felt like Elphaba’s dad in Wicked. For him, it was like, ‘Fuck, she’s green?’ For me, it was like, ‘Fuck, she’s living?’” Seriously. Her exact words. Lovely person, isn’t she?

And then there’s dad. When I was little, I’d always say, “See, he’d be all right if he wasn’t always gone on business.” When he came back, he was a sweet, kind, loving dad and we’d go on walks. He bought me a swing and a trampoline and candy and made my life perfect when he was home. I swear, when he came back, I’d feel my heart sing HALLELUJAH. He’d take me away from my mom and her “visitors,” who were mainly boys, and who she’d take into her room and not come out for a long time with.

My dad and I always took walks in random areas. We’d go into his old, slightly run-down fancy silver car and we’d maneuver the roads all around DC and everywhere. We’d stop by randomly and walk on some part of the canal or some forest. We’d done Sugarloaf Mountain and the Billy Goat Trail one thousand times over. He always had interesting stories to tell and he’d let me suck on rock candy and chew endless cups of ice while he talked, and then I’d reply to his stories with some of mine—which were usually made up. (PS: The reason there was ice was because I was obsessed with chewing ice when I was little.) Anyways. Then, one day, my bastard of a father comes home and pops the news: he’s got a girlfriend and three kids down on the West Coat and he’s going to ask her to marry him, so would my mom please divorce him? I swear, I wanted to shoot the guy. I wanted to throw up those years’ worth of rock candy and ice and M&Ms on that jerk and then punch his face in. Even though I was only ten, I got it. My dad was a cheater. My dad was the Bad Guy.

It was hard for me to face it at first, though. Why would my dad be the Bad Guy? He was always the Good Guy. He was always my safe ground, the person I called when I was feeling down about mom or something that had happened at school. He was the person I thought about all day and got excited about talking to. Then, there was nobody to turn to. I tried to call him a couple times, but he told me, “Phoebe, I don’t think we should talk anymore.”

My mom only got more depressed. She liked him, too. So then, there were more “visitors” and the house always had that lingering sickly-sweet smell that emitted from those smoky pipes that she sucked in. And then, there were little baggies of white powder lying around and then, there were bags under her eyes and she was on the street, sneaking those bags of white powder to other people for too much money. I was told to never tell anybody, so I didn’t. One day, I even tried some of it. I sucked it right on in like my mom did, because she was just so fun-loving and happy when she did it. I wanted to be as fun-loving and happy. But instead, my head hurt horribly and I smelled and my teachers looked at me worriedly. I never tried that stuff again.

Then, one day, Lily showed up. She was my dad’s, one of the kids he had in California. She said she hated her life there, thought what he’d done was wrong, hated him, hated him. This was something her and I had in common. So then, she moved in with us. My mom couldn’t care less. She said, “Just don’t tell anybody,” and cocked her head towards the bags that rested on the table. Lily nodded and followed that one rule: Don’t tell. The number of “visitors” tripled, but I didn’t notice because I spent so much time in the front, talking to Lily. We sat under the old oak tree that looked like it was going to collapse any second. Her and I took from my mom’s overflowing wallet so Lily and I could buy lemonades and snow cones to drink or nibble on while we talked. We must’ve spent the equivalent of four months under that tree, talking, talking, talking.

She was happy, which was so unlike my mom. She saw wonder in everything around her, and her eyes were always shining in this beautiful way only hers could. They were bright green, and I’d never seen a color like it. Oftentimes, when she was telling me about That Day’s Miracle, I’d find myself gazing into those eyes and coveting them with all my heart. Soon after, she began taking me to church and decided that I ought to be reformed. So, every Sunday, we went to church. It was love at first sight. I was entranced by the smells, the sights, the feeling of community. There, nobody stared at me in a menacing way as I passed, like they did on the street. Instead, they cried, “Oh, baby!” and wrapped me up in their perfume-smelling arms. I was welcome there. I memorized every prayer and took money from my mom to buy a dress. It was a lacy white, with a light pink sash. To match, I wore a ribbon that had real dried flowers stuck to it. Every week, I’d replace those flowers with flowers from the school garden. I chose the only flowers that weren’t dying from it.

Lily and I were best friends. She was my sister and a beautiful soul, and I loved her with all my heart. When my mom’s bags under her eyes grew deeper and she grabbed at me and yelled, “Don’t let them get you!” as I walked into the kitchen to get a drink, I wasn’t so bothered. I had Lily.

Then, June 18th came. It was just another lazy day. She’d just saved up enough money to buy a fancy car, a convertible. It was a glimmering bright red color, and we bounced through the city with wind blowing our hair around and the radio blasting. It was our first ride, and we were soaking up every second. Then, all of the sudden, there was a gigantic boom. It seemed slow motion: booooooooooooooooooooooooooooomm instead of the real bam that it was. The radio still kept singing, “It’s a hip-hop day, yeah, hip-hop day, yeah!” The birds kept twittering above us, the car kept driving. Lily was slumped over in the seat, her throat making odd grunting sounds. As soon as all this had processed through my mind, Lily had been dead for exactly fourteen seconds. My heart hurt all of the sudden, this excruciating pain that you can only feel when you’ve lost the only thing important to you. Lily was slumped over, slumped over in her seat, and the radio was saying, “It’s a hip-hop day, yeah!” and the birds were twittering except now, we weren’t just rolling, we were swerving, and then all of the sudden, it was over.

I woke up in a hospital bed. My mom hadn’t bothered to show up, even if she’d been told. The doctors told me Lily was gone, and I thought of the birds twittering and the radio blasting and the way she was slumped over. The doctors told me the car had swerved over and hit the side of the road. The doctors told me the man who had shot Lily had been arrested, and he’d claimed he’d meant to shoot his friend, who was sitting in the bus stop beside the road. As if that was better.

I didn’t talk. I didn’t move. My mom came some time or another, and when I didn’t talk or do anything for an hour, she got bored and went away. I refuse to mobilize myself, because I was in shock. Of course, the grief had set in. Silently and unmoving, I’d gone through all five stages of grief and now I was just sad. They put me in Kilk’s because, when I started talking, it was all about shooting and my father and my mother and white powder in little bags.

And that is that.

Love,

Phoebe