Because I'm Disposable (2 page)

Chapter Three

I stared down at
my bandages
, trying to ignore the way the hipster T.A. behind the reception desk watched me. Like I was going to jump over the counter at her. As long as she didn't taunt me the way Jackie had, my butt was staying put. Besides, at my height, I'd have to get a running start to get over the counter. I planted my feet flat on the ground and slouched back in my chair across the room from her. I closed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest, just to drive home the point that she was of no interest to me.

The glass door leading out to the breezeway opened, and I slitted my eyes open just enough to watch my mother walk in. Her scrub pants were rose pink, and her white scrub top had matching pink hearts all over.
Hot pink, long-sleeved thermals stretched down to her wrists. Oh, Ms. Martin was going to
love
her
.

Mom shuffled up to the girl manning Reception. "Hi, I'm Callista Tanner's mom. I'm here for a meeting with the assistant principal."

Hipster Barbie smiled, showing off a set of perfectly straight, bright white teeth and reached for the switchboard phone. She hit a few buttons, mumbled something into the mouthpiece, then replaced the receiver. "Ms. Martin will be right with you."

My mother thanked her and turned to join me in the 'timeout' chairs. She didn't say anything to me, but I hadn't expected her to.

Ms. Martin arrived a minute later, shuffling down the hallway in old-lady waitress shoes and a black pantsuit two sizes too big for her oversized frame. Her brown hair frizzed from root to tip in a puff of shoulder-length rat's nest. "Hi, you must be Mrs. Tanner." She held her hand out.

Mom st
ood and shook her hand half-heartedly. I stood just so I wouldn't have to look up at them while they talked about me.

"As I mentioned over the phone, Callista was brought to my office afterschool for fighting."

Mom showed the appropriate level of shock and disapproval. "Yes, and I will have a nice long talk with her." But that was unlikely. Knowing Mom, she would probably pretend this never happened.

"I appreciate that. Unfortunately, I can't let this behavior go unaddressed. I have to suspend you, Callie. For three days."

Suspended. I’d only been back one day, and now I was going to be out of school for the next three. I determined to spend the entire three days—five if I counted the weekend—in bed.

"And, I'm afraid Coach Granger has requested that you be removed from the basketball team
."

I dropped back down into my chair. I'd expected this, but it still hurt like Jackie's basketball to the stomach.

Miss Martin was quick to inform me, "It should be longer. I'm cutting you slack in light of your …
circumstances
."

S
he wanted me to be thankful that she pitied me. Yeah, because that’s exactly how everyone feels when they know people are sitting around talking about how sorry their lives are—thankful.

* *
* * *

I didn’t want to see anyone. Not even Corrine. I managed to ignore the sunlight streaming through my wi
ndows until almost ten, the next morning. The bedroom was blindingly bright this morning. Why hadn’t I ever noticed it before? It should have hurt as badly every other morning as it did right then.

When I finally pried my eyes open and shifted to my feet, Corrine’s bed was empty. Part of me had expected her to stay home from school and try to mother-hen me all day.
She must have tip-toed through her morning routine to get out without waking me.

I grabbed the nearest blanket, a fuzzy, pink number Grams had given me five Christmases ago, and threw it over the curtain rod. It draped precariously over most of the window, but it stayed up. Satisfied, I shuffled out of my room, toward the bathroom.

Mom was probably here sleeping, preparing for her night shift at the hospital, but it didn’t make a difference if she was. Even when she was home, she wasn’t really here. When I was younger, I used to be jealous of the kids in the pediatric care unit because they got so much of my mother’s attention. Now, I was grateful to be left alone.

The bathroom was immaculate, as usual. Corri must have cleaned it before school this morning. Dad might be dead, but the habits he’d drilled into us weren’t. Everything was perfectly placed: two hand towels lined up side by side on the rack next to the light switch, three decorative soaps set pyramid-style in the soap dish on the counter, and one triangle folded into the roll of toilet paper hanging across from the toilet. Just like a hotel b
athroom—just as Dad had expected.

I ignored the sudden urge to throw every one of those items into the middle of the floor and sat down to pee instead. That’s when I saw it. There in the corner, where tub met wall and both met floor, was a button-sized drop of dried blood. I hadn’t once stopped to think about who’d cleaned up all the blood left behind after my futile attempt to bleed myself dry. More than likely, Corri had done it while mom was at the hospital with me. It was exactly the sort of selfless thing she would do and never mention.

As soon as I’d flushed the toilet, I was down on the floor with a wet washcloth, scrubbing at the blood so hard my knuckles were white with strain. It came up easily, but I kept going, as though if I scrubbed hard enough, long enough, I could erase everything that had happened.

Eventually, I dropped the washcloth and collapsed in a heap against the wall. My heart was racing, and my stomach was in knots. I turned my hands palm up so I could stare down at the gauze taped over my wrists. I’d read somewhere once that women are less likely than men to use messy means to take themselves out. Some will even go so far as to pose themselves as if they are sleeping. If there was one thing I’d learned from my father, it was that I couldn’t do anything right. I guess he was right. I couldn’t even commit suicide like a normal girl.

I picked myself up off the floor and zombie-walked downstairs to the kitchen, not really seeing anything around me. I wasn’t hungry, but I went through the motions of making breakfast anyway. Not just any breakfast, I realized as I pulled an armload of food from the fridge and set it on the counter next to the stove. I was making a ham and veggie omelet. Dad’s favorite. He’d demanded I make it for him every Saturday morning since I was eleven.

I heated the pan and prepped the eggs by rote, cracking and whisking them in a bowl I didn’t even remember pulling down from the cabinet. Then I slid a knife from the block, grabbed the onion from the pile of veggies
, and made for the cutting board next to the sink. In three chops, I’d sliced through the skin of my index finger. I knew instantly I’d cut myself—not because it hurt. No, the knife was too sharp for that. It was the feeling of the knife slipping into my flesh, thick and meaty like cutting through chicken. Then the sting kicked in.

I didn’t look immediately. My first instinct was to yank the dish towel from the oven handle and twist it a million times around my throbbing finger. When my entire hand was wrapped in red-checkered terrycloth, I turned the stove off and made for the upstairs bath.

By the time I got there, my blood was soaking through the towel, disrupting the perfect pattern of barn-red squares with a sloppy, crimson circle. I fished the orange canvas first-aid pouch out of the vanity drawer with my free hand and used my teeth to pull the zipper open. Frequent use meant the kit was down to the bare essentials and in need of replenishing, but I managed to dig out one lonely Band-Aid and an alcohol prep pad.

When I removed the towel, a single bead of blood bubbled up from a slit right above the fingernail on my index finger. It spread and slithered down my skin, then dripped off my finger. The droplet landed in the sink with a barely audible plop. A few seconds later, another drop splattered next to it. Instead of trying to stem the flow, I watched as three more vermilion pearls landed unceremoniously on the porcelain below and snaked a path toward the drain.

I wasn’t usually accident prone. Other than the night I slit my wrists, the only time I’d seen my blood was when my father had beat it out of me—and those times, I’d always been too preoccupied to pay any attention to it. I grabbed the soiled dish cloth and swiped at the trail of blood on my finger. The terry material stung the tiniest bit as it passed over the small wound, but I didn’t mind. Almost immediately, another bubble of type O welled up from the cut. This time, it stayed put. I held my finger up, twisting it this way and that, examining. The cut wasn’t deep; I probably didn’t need stitches.

I wiped the last bead of blood away and went to work cleaning and bandaging it. Now, my finger matched my wrists, I realized as I stared down at the gauze covering them. I’d changed my bandages every day since leaving the hospital, but I’d always made a concerted effort not to think about what I was doing, what I had done. Until now.

I slowly peeled the tape away from one arm and lifted the gauze to peer underneath. My wrist was split vertically, right down the middle, by a dark, red-brown, bumpy scab. I pulled the dressing all the way off and tossed it into the trash can next to the sink. Then, I tugged at the tape holding the other one down.

When both wrists were uncovered, I turned my hands palm up and surveyed my healing wounds. Each was about two inches long and thick. The ugly, misshapen scabs disrupted the smooth, ivory pale skin, but they looked like they belonged. Like they somehow conveyed my inner turmoil.

That night existed like a dream in my memory. It wasn't real, wasn't me. I didn't know who I was anymore.

I didn’t bother to rebandage my wrists. These were my handiwork, and I was going to own them. No more hiding what I had done. It wasn’t like everyone didn’t already know, or at least suspect it, anyway.

It wasn’t until I was on my way back down to the kitchen that I realized what a respite that had been. For the entire twenty minutes I’d been seeing to my wounds, both new and old, I hadn’t thought about my father—or anything else for that matter.

Chapter Four

The rest of Thursday passed without incident,
and Friday arrived with a bang—a series of them, to be precise—pulling me out of a peaceful dream about lounging on the beach at Grandma Harris’ lake house. Someone was knocking on the door. I dragged myself out of bed and down the stairs. All the while, the person on the other side of the door kept up that insistent pounding.

“All right, all right. I’m coming. Keep your pants on!” I tore open the door, letting it slam into the coat rack. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting to find on the front porch, but I certainly hadn’t pictured an arrangement of flowers so big they blocked the delivery guy from view.

He lowered the vase enough to reveal the brim of a tan baseball cap and a pair of close-set brown eyes. “Delivery for Carol Tanner and family.” His voice was muffled.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I told him, reaching out to take the mass of lilies and snapdragons and some flower I didn’t recognize.

“You’re Carol?” Now that his face was revealed, the flower guy looked confused. And sweaty—probably because it was a million degrees outside.

“No. And family.” I didn’t wait for further comment. Carrying the arrangement high above me so I could see where I was going, I spun on the heel of my multi-colored toe-socks and stepped back into the house, kicking the door shut behind me.

“Have a nice day,” Sweaty Delivery Guy called from the other side.

“Yeah, you too,” I answered to the empty room and made for the dining room table, where the rest of our pseudo-conservatory was. I left it next to the bouquet of carnations from the nurses at the hospital and left the room without bothering to read the card. It didn’t matter who’d sent these flowers any more than it mattered who’d sent the last ten arrangements.

The steady shh, shh, shh of my socks rubbing against the oak floor, echoed off the walls of the otherwise silent house as I trekked into the kitchen. For a brief second, I eyed the stove, but then the knife block caught my eye. I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s mishap. I swiped the box of Fruity Crisps from the cabinet and the whole jug of OJ from the fridge and went back to my room. I spent the next several hours curled up in bed with Frankenstein.

*
* * * *

A beam of sun-lit reflection rolled across my ceiling seconds before the school bus rumbled to a stop on the street outside my house. I thought about getting up, crossing my bedroom, and watching through the window as the kids from my school filed off and dispersed like ants leaving their hill, but I couldn’t muster the energy. I closed Frankenstein and set
the book on my bedside table—I hadn’t really been reading it anyway. For the last half-hour or so, I’d been staring at the lines in my ceiling thinking about how easy it was to relate to the monster. Being created to satisfy someone’s selfish desire, cast away for what he was, forced to suffer alone. Yeah, I totally got it.

“Callie, I’m home!” Corrine called from downstairs. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and seconds later, she burst into the room, out of breath and flushed from the effort of running. “Get up, and put some clothes on, quick!”

I didn’t move.

“Callie, come on!” She grabbed my hand and yanked. “Lincoln, from across the street, is coming over in a minute. We need to make you presentable.” When I was on my feet, Corrine twirled away, across the room to the closet.

“What—why?” I didn’t follow her.

“Because, I want you to look cute when he gets here.” Came her muffled reply from somewhere in her half of the closet. Great, she was going to make me wear a dress. My side of the rack was all t-shirts and blue jeans.

“That’s not what I meant, Corri.” I was sure she knew it too. “Why is he coming over?”

“Oh, he mentioned that you guys have English together. So, I might have asked him to come over and fill you in on what you missed in class the last two days.” She was still buried deep within her masses of silk, and lace, and floral prints.

“Awesome.” I plopped back down on my mattress.

Corrine chose that moment to emerge, bearing an armload of multi-hued, summer numbers. “Uh-uh. Get up.” It wasn’t a request.

I obeyed.

She made a show of holding four different, but equally bright
, dresses up in front of me and making me stand in front of the mirror while she hemmed and hawed over each one. Finally, she settled on a short, yellow sundress, complete with a sash to tie into a bow in the back.

I got the feeling she was about to forcibly strip me and put that cheery dress on me herself, but the doorbell rang before she could. Instead, she tossed it at me demanding, “Put it on; fix your hair, and get your butt downstairs immed
iately. Link is super adorbs—don’t let me down.” Then, she flitted out of the room like a butterfly.

*
* * * *

Link was waiting for me in the living room, on the couch, when I rounded the banister at the bottom of the stairs. He looked particularly good today, with his sh
ort hair styled in thick, blond spikes, and a light blue shirt tight enough to show off muscles surprisingly well-defined for a teenage boy. He was staring at his sneakers, but looked up as I approached. And then stood.

I hadn’t known guys actually still did that.

I skirted around Dad’s recliner and planted myself in the rocker in the corner, crossing my legs awkwardly to avoid revealing anything I shouldn’t. It was bad enough that I was in one of Corrine’s dresses, but to have to make an entrance with Link staring at me, was borderline humiliating.

As soon as I was seated, Link plopped back down on the worn, beige cushion he’d gotten up from. I probably should have said something, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Even hello escaped me right then.

“You look nice.” Link saved me from the silence.

“Thanks.” My voice cracked on the word, and I busied myself smoothing down the ruffled hemline resting on my thighs.

“I heard you got suspended for fighting. You come back Monday?”

“Tuesday. It was a three-day suspension.”

Link nodded his understanding. The silence pressed in again. Finally, he reached down to dig through the backpack on the floor next to his feet.

“I brought the English assignments for yesterday and today. And I guess there’s going to be a quiz on Tuesday.” He handed me a small stack of notebook paper, with handwritten notes. “These are my notes on the book. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read it, so I thought these might help. At the back are the vocab words too.”

I sifted through the pages—ten in total—and all of it was stuff he would have written in his Lit journal. He’d copied ten pages of notes for me by hand. In a big picture sense, it wasn’t much, but no one had ever cared much about my education before. Heck, Link had never cared much before. Why now?

“Why are you suddenly paying attention to me?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. I certainly didn’t want to hear him say it was because he felt sorry for me.

His eyes widened, and he floundered for a moment before answering. “I’ve always paid attention to you, Callista. You’ve just never noticed before.” His voice was quiet, like a gentle snowfall, but the words resonated deep within my mind. Was it true? Had I always overlooked Link because I assumed he was doing the same with me?

He pierced me with an earnest look, then switched his gaze back to his sneakers. I wanted to say something, should have said som
ething. A denial, an apology—anything. The words wouldn’t come.

“So, anyway. Everything you should need for the quiz should be there, and I can bring you our work on Monday too. You know, if you want.” Link saved me from the silence once again.

I cleared my throat before answering this time. “Thanks.”

A door slammed upstairs, seconds before footsteps creaked across the landing. “Oh, Callie, you have company!” My mother called over the banister. When I shifted to look over my shoulder, she was rushing down the stairs toward us. She must have just woken up. Her pale pink, cotton pajamas were wrinkled
, and her hair was a grey-brown nest of curls and tangles. Yesterday’s mascara was smeared under one eye, and she had a trace of bright red lip-gloss smeared across the opposite cheek.

Yeah, this wasn’t about to get embarrassing, or anything. I cringed when she reached the bottom and rounded the banister, coming to stand behind Dad’s chair. She rested her hands on the back of the recliner and smiled brightly at Link.

“Callie, you didn’t tell me you were having a friend over. Not that I mind or anything. I’m happy you have friends coming around. I don’t think you’ve ever brought a friend home. Especially not such a cute one!”

“Mom!” At that point, part of me wished I was the one taking a dirt nap instead of my father.

And then Corrine was there, swooping in like my little guardian angel to save me from further humiliation. “Mom, knock it off.” She must have been listening in from the kitchen, but right at that moment, I couldn’t be anything but grateful. Corrine gently grabbed hold of my mother’s elbow and turned her around, steering her toward the kitchen.

To his credit, Link acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, like he was used to seeing pajama-clad, middle-aged women embarrass their daughters. “I should probably get going. I’ve got a lot of chores to do before my mom gets home.” He stood and reached for his backpack, slipping a strap over one shoulder.

“Oh, okay. Thanks for this.” I held the notes up in the air, only just stopping myself from waving them nervously at him. Instead, I dropped them onto the coffee table and got up to follow him to the door.

He reached for the knob, but faced me before he turned it. “Are you like, grounded or anything?” he asked, holding me hostage with the intensity in his sea-green eyes.

I shook my head. “No, not really. I mean, my mom didn’t say anything.”

“Cool. Maybe we can hang out or something this weekend?” He was looking at his sneakers again and shuffling the toe of his left one in a semicircle around the right.

I bit back a dorky grin that threatened to take over my face. “Yeah, that would be cool. Let me know.”

He nodded and opened the door, stepping out a heartbeat later. As he took the handful of porch steps to the front walk, he threw a “see ya” over his shoulder and headed for his place across the street.

I closed the door and leaned back against it with my eyes closed. When I opened them, my mother and Corrine were standing in front of me, grinning like loons.

“Did I hear that right? Lincoln asked you out on a date?” Corrine clasped her hands to her chest in an image of mock feminine wilting.

“Shut up. He didn’t ask me out on a date; he asked if I wanted to hang out.” I brushed past them both and made for the stairs.

I had one foot on the bottom step when my mother gushed, “You should invite him to hang out here. It’s so nice to see you with a friend. Maybe even a boyfriend?”

Her enthusiasm struck a nerve I hadn’t known was tender. I spun to face her. “Why do you care? Aren’t you a little late to the butt-in-on-Callie’s-life party?” Guilt crept up on me as the words were coming out of my mouth, and was even worse when her cheery look crumbled into a mask of hurt.

For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t stop there. I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth at her. “
All you’ve ever cared about is yourself. You don’t care that you’re embarrassing the crap out of me when you come downstairs looking like a sloppy narcoleptic in front of the first person who’s ever come over to see me. Do me a favor, and go back to barely acknowledging my existence, like you did before Dad died.” I couldn’t stand the sight of tears swimming in her eyes or the way her bottom lip quivered slightly by the time I’d finished my rant. I charged up the stairs to my room.

As I rounded the doorframe and turned to slam my bedroom door, Corrine’s voice floated up the stairs. “Don’t cry, Mom. She didn’t mean it. She’s just having a hard time right now. She loves you. I know she does.”

Did I? I wasn’t sure I loved anyone, including myself. How could I love when I didn’t know what love was?