Punk Like Me (37 page)

I rubbed my face, then dropped my hands into my lap. I just looked down to collect my thoughts, then back at Samantha. “Who am I?”

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“What do you mean?” Samantha said, her expression puzzled. My question had thrown her off.

“I mean,” I said slowly, “who am I? Am I Nina? Razor? Kerry calls me,” and I smiled at myself in self-derision, “Hopey. Am I a student? An athlete? A musician? A faggot? Stupid? Crazy? Smart? You see, there’s a lot of names and words out there, and I’ve got this stupid idea that maybe one word just isn’t enough, that there’s this me that exists, an identity sort of, that doesn’t have a name. It’s just, well, me,” I started earnestly. Oh, this was coming out all wrong, but Samantha just nodded at me to continue.

“I’m not saying that I believe or not in a soul or something like that,” I said. “It’s just that before I had a name given to me, by my parents, school, friends, the world,” and I smiled a bit, because I knew most of the names the world held for me weren’t complimentary, “there was, there is, this me, this self, and that self wants to be, just be, and if I deny it, then, somehow, it’s like I’m being unfaithful to it or disloyal, or, or…” I searched for the words to describe how I felt, what I meant, and I hardly knew truly what I was saying, just that I really meant it.

“Samantha, if I have to lie about something fundamental about myself, to the people who are most important to me, then it’s like I’m killing something, something important. It’s like I’ll never be real again.

It would be the same if I had to pretend I didn’t care about music, or my family, or…” and I paused, stunned by the enormity of the realization,

“or you,” I Þ nished softly.

And that’s what denying meant, I realized. It meant that I could never really feel, never really love, never know if I was loved or if all the words of love, affection, and loyalty were true or not, because I’d always know that mine were false because I wasn’t giving of myself totally. I couldn’t in return expect or even hope for that same totality, and it meant I’d have no true connections, because mine weren’t complete—at least not with those I wanted to be connected. Who cares about strangers, right? Right.

Samantha’s expression during my little speech was one of interest, until I reached the last part. Her eyes opened wide and she hugged me again. “I wouldn’t want you to not feel that,” she said softly, “and I really don’t want you to lie either.”

I returned the hug and simply rested my head on her shoulder.

Hey, I was taller than I thought! My eyes were level with her ear, well, sort of.

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For the rest of the afternoon until Samantha took me home (she lent me a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt; it was weird hanging out in my underwear and her T-shirt, and I wasn’t going to sleep any more), we talked, cuddled, and talked some more, going over solutions, avenues of probability, that sort of thing.

At one point I did ask her, “Does your uncle know? Did your dad?

About, you know,” I hesitated, this was still new territory, “you, and all that?”

By this time, we were sitting on the ß oor, backs up against the bed, just chilling (and I know, I know, me and ß oors, what can I say?

It’s just a thing with me and my friends, I guess. Maybe I’m just trying to be “grounded”), talking, whatever, and Samantha laughed at my question.

“Actually, yeah,” she said with a smile. “My dad told me, before I was going to tell him, that he didn’t care who I brought home when I decided when and who I was ready to date, just so long as he or she,” and she stressed the words, “was a decent person.”

“Really?” I asked dryly, and Samantha grinned a bit more.

“Actually, he said, ‘that there Fran, she likes you now, right?’ and I just stared at him in shock because I wasn’t even sure.” Samantha chuckled.

“So? What did you do?” This was interesting. I mean, I’d never really heard of anyone having a cool parent or parents before, at least when it comes to this sort of thing, ya know?

“I, um, I mumbled something about not being sure of that, and my dad just laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, and said some things were universal and don’t worry about it, actually.” She grinned up at me.

“That’s a cool thing, truly.” I had met her late father at a few of our meets. He had been a kindly sort of man, very salt-of-the-earth type, and I could just hear him saying that. “And what about your uncle?” Samantha blushed. “Um, he asked me if my father and I had had the talk, you know?” she looked at me, cheeks glowing, “and I said, uh, yeah, but it probably wasn’t what he thought it was. So he said he Þ gured my father would have covered it, and he was pretty sure that he could handle anything I had to ask, because he Þ gured I wouldn’t really need to worry about the, um, birth control thing.” Samantha ß ushed a deeper shade of red. “And that he didn’t know if he could give me any

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truly helpful advice, because I probably knew more about women than he did, but at least he might be able to help me out in tricky situations, because he liked to think that because he was a little older, he might be a little wiser, that sort of thing.”

I laughed, because it was funny, and because it was probably true, and after a moment or two, Samantha laughed with me. My face didn’t hurt so much anymore, and I was starting to experience freedom of movement again. I stretched experimentally, to get some of the kinks and the soreness out.

The sun was going down. It was deÞ nitely time to go home and comply with the new world order. I wasn’t 100 percent sure of what my next moves would be, but I knew one thing for sure: I was at least going to graduate from my high school and not any other, no matter what I had to do, as long as I didn’t compromise my own ethics.

Samantha drove me home, and on the way we made plans. I was going to skip swim practice until Saturday, then after practice and detention, she was going to teach me how to drive; that would be a start on the road to independence. One thing we both managed to agree on: knowledge was power, and the school I was going to would give me the best education I could get, pretty much anywhere. Throwing that away was out of the question, and Samantha wasn’t thrilled with the idea of my crawling around the train tracks, but she could at least see where it would be helpful, in my quest for funds, anyway.

I’d also decided that the very next morning, I would go into Sister Clarence’s ofÞ ce, explain that there was a Þ nancial difÞ culty, and that I would be paying my own tuition. Maybe she’d be able to work something out with me, and I shared that thought with Samantha as well as we approached my street.

“Hey, now when we polish banisters together, I’ll be the one on detention, and you’ll be actually working,” she teased.

“Hey, yeah, maybe I’ll never have to do detentions again!” I grinned back. We’d been lucky that day, since we’d had detention given to us the day before by Sister Attila, but very obviously, circumstances outside of her control had excused us from that. We probably wouldn’t be quite as lucky the next day, but, hey, stranger things could happen, right?

I was feeling Þ ne, like everything would be okay, until we pulled into my block. Then my stomach kicked me with a double dose of anger

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and fear, and I can honestly tell you, it was the anger that got stronger, until the fear went back into its corner to hide.

We pulled onto the corner and I released my seat belt as Samantha parked the car. “You gonna be okay?” she asked with concern. “You can come stay with me, at least for a few days, you know, if you don’t want to stay longer,” she reminded me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I sighed and nodded afÞ rmatively. “I’ll keep that in mind, in case they get crazy, okay? If something happens, maybe they won’t have a strong case for the cops if they beat me up two days in a row, and then, well, that’s a whole ’nother story.”

“Are you sure? I think we might have a case now,” she said softly.

“Nina, you don’t know what you look like. I don’t want to see you hurt further.” She ran a gentle hand along the side of my head that was now skin and short fuzz. “I’m scared for you,” she whispered intently. I don’t think she meant me to hear that.

I caught her hand up and kissed the palm, holding it between mine. “Sammy, I’m scared, too. But I have to try. I have to face them, at least once. If I don’t, I’ll just let fear win. I’ll be running away, and then I’ll be running away forever. I can’t live like that. Believe me,” and my eyes pleaded with intensity for her understanding, “if anything happens, I’ll call you right away, I promise.”

“What if something happens and you can’t run, Nina?” Samantha asked with real worry. “What if you can’t call?” I hadn’t thought of that possibility, and now I knew why. “It won’t happen again, Sam, not like that. I won’t let it.” I smiled grimly. “I let it this time, because I felt I owed my parents respect, and that they wouldn’t do such things. Believe me, I will not,” I paused for emphasis,

“let myself be touched like that again. I swear.” Samantha looked very uncertain and said as much. “How can you be sure?”

Her face was the very deÞ nition of doubt and concern, and I wanted to reassure her that I meant it. I’d suffer the parental units’ shit if I had to, but I would never allow them to harm me again. “Samantha, remember your freshman year?”

“Yeah?” she drawled out and cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Do you remember what was required besides Latin?” I hinted, trying to jog her memory. Freshman year was a year no one could ever forget, though I’m sure plenty of therapists are out there making an

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entire living from those trying. And yes, Latin was among one of the many required subjects for all freshmen, because it would “help us with our English and other language studies,” and dammit—the nuns were right—again. Sigh. Oh, wait, can “nun” and “dammit” coexist in the same sentence? Too late, oh well.

“We had Latin, Afro-Asian studies, oh!” Samantha brightened up suddenly as the realization hit her. “Everyone had to take judo/self-defense with what’s her name, from that federation!” Samantha nodded her head, “Yeah!” and grinned.

Yeah is right. Like I said way back before, all freshmen had to take judo/self-defense; it didn’t matter whether the student was a jock or not, and no excuses about asthma. The thought was that every woman should know how to defend herself (never mind the fact that the uniform made us a target), and our class was taught by the woman who took judo and women in martial arts to the Olympics. (You can look her up if you’re into that sort of thing—just search under “judo” and “Olympic history”—you’ll Þ nd her).

She taught us how to drop, roll, throw, take a punch, and use our size to our advantage—she was incredible! And she also taught us that if we knew how to defend ourselves, we’d never feel helpless, no matter what happened. You know what? She was right.

But the grin faded from Samantha’s face. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to take that on?” she asked me seriously. “That’s a lot of responsibility…” She trailed off, obviously watching my reactions, waiting for my reply.

I nodded Þ rmly in agreement. “Yeah, if I’m pushed to defend myself, I’m ready to be responsible for the outcome,” I said very solemnly. That was something they had impressed upon us from the start, that once we’d tried all other options and physicality was the only avenue open, then possibly someone could and would get hurt, and there was no telling to what depth the injury might go.

This was a very serious thing, and I did not then and do not now take violence lightly. In fact, I’m a lover, not a Þ ghter, but if my life was at stake…I took a deep breath. I was scared, but prepared. Samantha seemed a little reassured, but not much.

The little voice in my head interrupted my concentration, and the fear came out of its corner to reassert itself. It could happen again, really, couldn’t it? What if I was sleeping? I shared a room with Nanny;

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my dad could just open the door—undo the lock. It wasn’t hard. I’d done it myself, plenty of times. They could, possibly, just come into the room, do whatever they wanted. And it wasn’t like I could stay awake all day and all night. I had to recover from the meet, from the beating, from being ill, and I had to be able to do all of my activities.

My mind raced for solutions because I wasn’t going to let fear rule me, or Samantha, either. An idea came to mind, and I squeezed her hand again. “Samantha, listen. If I’m not in school for whatever reason tomorrow, and you can’t get in touch with me here, then…” I took a breath then let it out, “tell whoever you think you need to tell whatever you think they need to know, and call the cops, ’cause in that case, I’m in real trouble.”

Samantha nodded and returned the pressure on my hand. “Okay, if I don’t see you before homeroom starts, I’ll call you Þ rst, then, honestly, Nina? I’m gonna call my uncle and the cops. Cort knows a thing or two about a thing or two, and,” she paused and smiled darkly, “he’s pretty big, too.”

Great. I was a touch relieved; at least someone would know there was a body to go look for. Why lie? I was scared. I didn’t want to go back there. Like I said before, I’d been disciplined, sure, but never a wholesale knockdown like that before, never anything that had left me both bruised and bleeding. Not to mention broken.

My face was starting to ache again, and my head was pounding in time with it. I wasn’t sure if I was mentally or physically able to withstand another onslaught like the night before, and despite my words to the contrary, I didn’t really know what self-defense meant.

“Samantha, if you need to do that, go right ahead. Do what you have to do.” I released Samantha’s hand, grabbed my stuff from the backseat, hauled it over, and put my hand on the latch. “But I don’t think it’ll be necessary.” I smiled as reassuringly as I could, which wasn’t much, because the corner of my mouth was scabbing up. Nasty, nasty feeling. DeÞ nitely on the bad list. Oh yeah, I have a list—several, in fact: the good list, the bad list, the hit list, and the shit list. Everything has its place, ya know.