Authors: Mattie Dunman
Instinct
Instinct
by
Mattie Dunman
Text Copyright
©
2013 Deirdre
Robertson
All Rights Reserved
For Mom and Dad, with all my love—
You never questioned my dream, only ever
asked “how can we help?”
Instinct:
-a natural or inherent aptitude, impulse, or capacity
-a largely inheritable and unalterable
tendency of an organism to make a complex and specific response to
environmental stimuli without involving reason
-behavior that is mediated by reactions below the conscious
level
“I’m
completely dishonest. I’ve swindled everyone I’ve ever done business with.”
I grab my
Mom’s arm and smile apologetically at the guy in the business suit who sits
across from us. Mom glances down at me, eyebrow lifted in inquiry. I shake my
head. She nods and turns back to the slightly bemused man across the table.
“Well, this
has been very enlightening. I will take your offer under consideration and let
you know,” she says, rising from her chair.
The man is
startled for a moment but recovers smoothly, his voice oiled with charm as he
bids us goodbye. We’ve played this particular scene many times before; Mom
meets with a potential buyer or seller for her antiques business and then I
stop by to introduce myself and hear whatever unwelcome truth the client is
hiding. Rinse, lather, repeat.
I don’t look back
as we exit the coffee shop. A morning meeting with a potential client at
Starbucks. How cliché can you get?
As we round
the corner outside the building Mom puts an arm around me. “Are you sure,
sweetie? He had some great pieces, and he wasn’t being unreasonable.”
“I’m sure. He
was lying his ass off,” I say, a weary note in my voice. People are always
trying to screw someone over. It gets depressing after a while.
“Oh well.
Better safe than sorry.” She shrugs and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks for coming
with me.”
I shrug back
at her. What else am I going to do? Let my mom potentially lose buckets of her
hard-earned cash by buying fake antiques from someone we know nothing about?
Hardly. She needs me. She’s always been terrible at reading people.
I, on the
other hand, am infallible.
“C’mon. Let’s
get something good out of this trip. How about a new outfit for school
tomorrow? There are some cute shops downtown, I bet we can find something
you’ll like,” Mom offers playfully as we reach the car. I survey my outfit.
Jeans, an old Ramones t-shirt, a vintage smoking jacket, and scuffed sneakers.
Maybe some new clothes wouldn’t hurt.
“Yeah, that
sounds good,” I agree. Mom’s eyes brighten and she shoves me into the passenger
seat, as if further discussion might make me change my mind. In the past, there
has never really been any need for me to worry about what I wear. When you’re
homeschooled by your mother your entire life, hitting the books in comfy sweats
is the norm.
The thought of
school the next day starts the churning in my stomach again. I begged Mom to
let me go to public school this semester, my last shot at a normal high school
experience. It took weeks to wear her down, and since I already qualified for
graduation, and got early acceptance to a university, high school is probably
unnecessary. But I’m going to be eighteen in five months. This is the last
opportunity I’ll get before throwing myself into the unfamiliar and slightly
terrifying world of college. I need to test the waters.
“You know, you
can still back out of this,” Mom says knowingly. I ignore the whirlpool in my
stomach and force a smile.
“No way. How
else will I know if the
Vampire Diaries
accurately portrays the average
high school experience?”
Mom rolls her
eyes more expressively than I ever could. She also manages to swerve the car
into the opposite lane.
“Geez, Mom,
watch the road!” I gasp, grabbing the door handle. She scoffs and makes it back
into the right lane just as another car whizzes by, blaring its horn.
“I was fine.
You worry too much.”
Ten thrilling
minutes later we pull into the parking garage three blocks away from the main
drag in Georgetown. A long stretch of trendy boutiques, designer shops, and
overpriced bistros populated by a mixture of well-dressed business people and
stylishly scruffy college kids, M Street is a popular destination on Sunday,
despite the frigid early January temperature. I half-listen to Mom’s litany on
city traffic as I look around. Two months ago we moved to Harpers Ferry, a
small town in West Virginia about an hour outside of D.C, but this is only my
second trip into the Capitol, and my first visit to Georgetown. Since I’m
starting college in the fall at Georgetown U., I am avidly interested in what
the neighborhood has to offer.
We stroll down
the street glancing at the different shop names, Mom excitedly pointing out
where we might eat lunch, but I feel a familiar melancholy wash over me. All
Mom sees are the elegant window displays and sale advertisements. I see past
the cutesy lettering on the signs. I read what they really promise.
Mom calls it
instinct. She believes that I have clearer first impressions than other people.
An uncanny knack for sensing the truth where others can’t.
But I know
better. I’m a freak. I’m so weird and wrong that I’ve been separated from the
rest of the world for as long as I can remember.
“Sweetie, do
you see anything you like?”
I blink and
look around me, realizing that I have zoned out completely. Mom is pointing to
a window display in front of us with mannequins wearing faded t-shirts paired
with short skirts and brightly colored scarves wound around the white plastic
necks. I dart a look up at the sign over the door.
‘Over-priced
and Poorly Made’
stretches across the sign until I blink. The words shimmer
slightly and then I am reading what everyone else sees. Just like always.
“No. I don’t
see anything I like,” I say, my previous jolt of excitement over shopping
fading into a disenchanted resignation. It’s hard never to be blissfully
unaware of reality. The trendy window display just looks forced and falsely
cheerful to me now.
“Oh, come on.
We’ll find something for you,” Mom argues, grabbing my arm and dragging me
through the frosted glass door. With a sigh I go along, knowing that it will
please her to buy me something. She always feels guilty after she makes use of
my “gift.” I might as well make someone happy.
An hour later
we emerge, Mom flushed with success, me trudging along behind her, clutching my
one bag and feeling awkward. She picked out sweaters and skirts and carefully
demolished jeans that she swore would help me blend in, but nothing looked
right on me. She ended up buying the clothes meant for me herself, and I left
the store with a pair of yellow ballet flats decorated by a cheerful white
flower on top, my one concession to mom’s determination to get me something. As
we walk down the street, Mom chatting away obliviously, I worry that I’ve been
needlessly stubborn about attending school. That I won’t fit in.
I’ve never
been to school. I’ve never gone to a party, or a dance, or a football game. I’ve
never played on a sports team or been in detention. I’ve never had a boyfriend.
I’ve never had
a friend.
Mom told me
that when I was little, she and my father put me in kindergarten before it
became apparent that I was too “different” to be with normal people. I don’t remember
much, but there was another little girl with whom I used to share toys and play
at recess. I guess no one really noticed the way I picked up on every little
thing, the way I would blurt out what someone had been hiding after they spoke
to me for the first time. Kids are forgiven a lot of tactless things when
they’re that little.
But most
adults don’t want you to tell the teacher that they’re beating their child at
home.
We were having
a parent day, where everyone’s mom or dad or whatever would come in and look at
the macaroni pictures we’d made or the modeling clay lumps we proudly called
sculptures. My playmate dragged a frayed looking woman with cold eyes over to
meet me.
“Mommy, this
is Derry,” my friend had to say several times before the woman took notice.
I had smiled
up at the woman, extending my small hand for her to shake as my father had
shown me to do, feeling hurt when she didn’t take it.
“I’m going to
beat Chrissy with a belt when I get home for talking so much,” the woman had
finally said, whatever greeting she had really imparted lost in the truth she
was hiding.
That’s what
happens with me. I’m not psychic, or clairvoyant, or even telepathic. I simply
can’t be lied to. No matter what someone says to me, the first thing I hear is
the truth. Usually what they’re thinking about or something related to the
situation, whatever they are holding back in that moment.
Once that
first statement is out of the way, I can get through the rest of a conversation
without hearing the double-speak. Still, even if I can’t hear the truth behind
the words, if someone is lying I can always tell. Lies find their way under my
skin like tiny insects clamoring for my attention, forcing me to see the uglier
side of people. There’s no way to get rid of that first impression. And it’s
always right.
Always.
So I ran
straight over and told my teacher what I’d heard. Though she acted like I had
misheard, I knew that she believed me, had probably already had suspicions
anyway. I saw her go over to my friend’s mother. They argued and the woman
left, dragging my friend behind even as the teacher hurried after them. That
was the last time I saw her. When my teacher later mentioned to my mother what
I had said, my parents removed me from kindergarten. That was the last time I
ever had anything resembling a friend.
I shrug off
the old memories. The last thing I need to be thinking of tonight is how
woefully inadequate my experiences have been. All my knowledge of social
interaction and school politics is based on
Gossip Girl
. I have serious
doubts as to its accuracy.
But I can’t
help the impatient, fluttery feeling in my veins when I think about tomorrow.
The whole thing could be a bust, of course, and yet I lose myself in the
fantasy of sitting at a lunch table, surrounded by friends, talking about the
big party coming up, and stealing kisses with my gorgeous, totally devoted
boyfriend. As I slip into the car and Mom weaves her way through the brutal
afternoon traffic, I can almost pretend that the fantasy is real, and I look
out the window with a smile.
“Ok
sweetheart, remember, if you want to come home, you just call me. I can be here
in fifteen minutes,” my mom says for the third time in the last five minutes.
Her forehead is creased with worry and she’s gripping the steering wheel too
hard.
“I got it,
Mom. I’ll be fine,” I protest, my hand on the door handle. Before I push the
door open I hesitate and turn to look at her. “Do you really think it’s going
to be that bad?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
She pins me with
her warm hazel gaze and then smiles, relaxing her shoulders. A knot inside me
eases a little as she brushes a hair back from my face. “No, sweetie. I think
it’s going to be a little overwhelming at first, but I know you can handle it.
Just…be careful. You know that when you first meet people, you seem a little…”
“Weird?
Stupid? Psycho?”
Mom fixes me
with a look. “No, and don’t start that up again. You can seem a little distant
sometimes while you’re sorting things through. Relax and let people get to know
you. You’re going to be a hit,” she promises and leans over to kiss my cheek.
“I hope so,” I
mutter under my breath and suck up my courage. I swing the door open and hop
out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the hulking brick structure that makes up
John Brown High. A wave of nausea rolls over me and the urge to jump back in
the car and beg Mom to take me home is all consuming. Clenching my hands around
the strap of my bag, I steel myself, keeping the fantasy of friends and fun
forefront in my mind until my feet unglue themselves from the asphalt and I can
move forward. I glance around and wave goodbye to my mom. She taps her horn
lightly and pulls away, taking with her my last escape route.
With no other
options left, I head toward the two flights of concrete steps leading up to the
front doors of the school. The building is totally retro, probably built in the
1970s and never renovated. I bet the pipes are ancient. Probably shouldn’t
drink the water.
I reach the
top of the stairs and brace myself for my first step into the school as a
student. Mom and I came here three weeks ago to get registered, and I was given
a tour and picked my schedule. But everything had still been theoretical then.
This was the real show.
The sign over
the doors reads “John Brown High School.” I don’t see anything else because
there isn’t any truth to conceal. The building is exactly what is advertised,
and my nerves calm their ragged dance slightly at this reassurance. Taking a
deep breath, I put my hand out and get ready to open the door.
It swings
open, nearly swatting me in the face, and I stagger back, almost tumbling down
the stairs I just climbed. An angry looking boy in a black wool pea-coat and
dark jeans stalks past me, not even glancing my way or noticing the way I’m
cradling my arm where the door struck it. I consider saying something, but the
hard set of his shoulders prevents me from forming words. I swallow my
irritation and rub my forearm until the stinging passes. The boy runs down the
stairs and halts before he crosses into the street. He glances around as though
searching for something and then slowly pivots and locks his gaze on me.
My chest
constricts and I can’t breathe. An invisible hand is gripping my throat and
deliberately tightening until my head is no longer connected to the rest of my
body. The inside of my mind burns like molten lava being poured in my brain and
my legs and hands start to shake uncontrollably until I almost cannot remain
standing.
Just as
suddenly it stops and the vise on my neck is released. My mind clears with no
residue of pain, as though the past few seconds never happened. I see the boy
widen his eyes in surprise before he jerks abruptly and turns his back to me,
crossing the pick-up lane and turning the corner, out of my sight. I am left
breathless and stiff with terror.
