Sky Tongues (2 page)

10

The library became the place where Midgard would come to me. He would fondle my breasts as we stood quietly behind the bookcases which held the most neglected books. He grew more and more bold, at one point running his hand over one of my shoulders, determining that I was braless and then quickly, deftly, unbuttoning my top, exposing me and muttering, “They’re beautiful,” before dipping his head and taking a nipple into his mouth.
   During these times, he would always disappear as quickly as he’d arrived, strutting off to sit with his friends at a round table by the window and then be loud and obnoxious with them, sometimes so much so that they would be kicked out of the library and banned from returning for several days.
   Unlike class however, Midgard never made fun of me in the library. His friends did, but not him. He would sit silently, almost sullenly, and at most he would laugh with them but he never said a single disparaging word to me himself.
   One day, in a particularly daring move, he came to me while I was stooped down examining a book on a bottom shelf. He used his long stringy fingers to open his jeans and pull out his penis, shoving it in my face. “Kiss it,” he said, his voice low.
    I looked at this thing presented to me, thinking it was rather ugly but still it was his and I loved him. I was tempted to do as he demanded but in the end, I couldn’t. The feelings of disgust and fear were too overwhelming. He repeated his demand but I turned away and then another student entered the aisle next to our, leaving him no choice but to quickly put it away and vanish once again.
   That day in science class was like any other, but I now thought of his cruelness as only something he did for show. It was like a game he and I were playing and we were the only ones who knew it. It was our secret sport and I was just pleased that he was paying attention to me. I knew he only did it because he wanted to talk to me but couldn’t because his friends would tease him if he did.
   But, he was too beautiful to not forgive and so I did. I even came to a place where I thought I understood his actions and loved him all the more for it.
   I took to calling him on the phone at night, having found that he had a listed number. Sometimes he would hang up on me but more often than not he would talk dirty. Tell me all the things he wanted to do to me and the things he wanted me to do to him. He would ask me sexy questions about my body and tell me things about his.
   Our bizarre love affair lasted exactly one school year and then it was over. The following year, we shared no classes and seldom saw each other except as we passed in the halls. And then would come the taunts, the name-calling, the “Hey, Froggy, let me see you leap!”
   Eventually, I became bored with Midgard, grew to think of him as nothing more than an asshole and forgot about him.
   But still, for reasons twisted and pathetic, he was my first love.
11
   The first year of high school was pretty much exactly how junior high had been but during the second year, I began to make my own special accessories. I fashioned gloves and moccasins out of soft leather and so was able to hide the fact that I was an Outie. I made a few friends who, though Norms themselves, eventually learned that I was an Outie but by then didn’t care anymore.
   My grades improved slightly, due to the fact that I was smarter than the school administration assumed. They had put me in many remedial classes where I was mostly able to excel.
   I took as many art classes as I could, sometimes winning prizes for my bizarre paintings, and was befriended by a young teacher’s aid. She was a college-age art student herself and we would often meet for coffee and have long conversations about various painters, styles and movements. It was also she who suggested that I investigate the drama department, which after much inner debating, I did.
   Armed with my gloves, I auditioned for small parts and, to my own amazement, got them. I began spending more and more time in the theater, not only in school but in the real world as well. Encouraged by the teacher’s aid, on weekends I would attend swap meets and sell my paintings, sometimes fetching as much as a couple hundred dollars for a single piece of decorated cardboard. I would use the money to buy tickets to plays in Old Boston, as well as tucking some aside with the intent of saving it so I could attend actor’s workshops during summer vacations.

   
Nearly all of my time was now taken up by the arts, which, when I’m honest with myself, I know was only to escape an increasingly unhappy home life.

   
Zion was now in the 5
^th
grade and still the apple of my parents eyes. Even when he angered and attempted to cut our mother’s carotid artery, he was forgiven and I was assigned the task of cleaning up the small lake of blood pooled on the kitchen floor while everyone else rushed to the hospital. It seemed to me that Zion should be cleaning up his messes himself, but I can’t recall a single time when he did.
   Even though I was now 15, my father still thought it was ok to use me as a punching bag and often did. Because of my extra curricular activities and friendships, things like the laundry were taking longer to be done and he eventually threatened to throw me out of the house unless I started “pulling my own weight.” I wasn’t about to sacrifice my art (that would have been sacrificing my soul) so I started doing as many chores as I could when I should have been sleeping. I’d been an insomniac my entire life, making the transition a fairly easy one, but then my school work began to suffer, which earned me yet more hell from my father.
   I think the fact is simply this: any excuse to beat me was a good enough excuse for him. In fact, he often made things up just so he could throw me to the ground, sit on my chest and punch me in the face.
   Being witness to this didn’t make Zion sympathetic as one would have imagined. Instead, he began making things up and telling my parents outrageous lies about me, earning me yet more beatings despite my denials and usually the complete impossibility that I could have done what I’d been accused of, most often because I simply had not been home when said crime had occurred.
   But there was no winning for me. All I could do was be there as little as possible and when I had to be, make myself as small and quiet as possible, hoping that they would forget my existence for a short while.
   The actor’s workshop was a huge blessing in that department. When, come summer, I had enough money to attend, I practically lived there. Acting was heaven to me. The chance to live another person’s life became an obsession; to be anyone but myself is all I craved. I studied everything I could: mime, body movement, improvisation, method and technical acting, voice, dance. If there was a class, I took it and I soon was given leads in impressive plays, playing both Anne Frank and Joan of Arc on a New Boston stage. The reviews were almost always positive, except for a few which stated I was often difficult to hear. Throwing my voice was the hardest thing for me to learn, as I was so pathetically shy and afraid of my own shadow most of the time.
   But, with much practice, I learned to be loud while in character. I worked hard—harder than anyone else attending the workshop—and my hard work paid off. I had talent, more so than I’d ever had with painting, and I soon began to see that talent as my ticket out of hell.
12
   Learning how to raise my voice turned out to be both a curse and a blessing. I would sit in my bedroom, reciting monologues as loud as I dared, until Gall came crashing through the door and demanding that I shut the fuck up.
   “I have to learn how to do this, Dad. It’s important.”

   “
I don’t give a fuck what it is. If I hear you again, you’re ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower!”

   
That was one of his favorite expressions. He wasn’t what I would call of high intelligence. “Ok,” I said meekly. Then he left and I would practice throwing my voice
quietly.
Naturally, this technique didn’t work that well and after half an hour or so, I forgot myself and became louder and louder, unaware that I was doing so until the next time my father kicked open the door.
   I was scared of him certainly, but even more than I was scared, I wanted to succeed in the only thing I truly knew how to do, the only thing besides painting that I’d ever been praised for.
   The third time he came in was the last. He grabbed me by the hair and threw me into the wall face first. Instantly, my lip split and my nose made a peculiar cracking sound as I crumbled to the floor. Before I’d even had time to register what had happened, he was on me again, kicking, kicking in my stomach, hips, back, head. Whatever he could reach with his steel-toed boot.
   I have no idea how long it went on, but I remember my mother finally coming in and trying to grab him by the shoulders, repeating, “Gall, that’s enough now. Calm down. Calm down.”
   He did stop kicking me but instead of just leaving me, instead of leaving the room, he lifted me by my hair again, dragging me out and down the hall, down the stairs and straight to the front door. Still holding me with one hand, he opened the door with the other and flung me out of it, screaming, “Get the fuck out of my house, you freak! Don’t ever come back! If I see you again, I swear to fucking gods, I’ll kill you!”
   Lying on the family walkway, curled into the fetal position and trying not to vomit, I watched him slam the door. I thought it might reopen and I’d see my mother there, but that never happened. The door stayed closed and in time, I was able to pick myself up and move on.
13
   With the little bit of money I had in my pocket, I took a train into New Boston. I had to ignore the strange looks I was getting from other passengers, but that was easy enough. I’d been ignoring strange looks my entire life.
    Once the train pulled into the Park Street station, I got off and rode the escalator high into the bright afternoon sun. I walked until I found a fast food joint where I went into the bathroom to assess the damage and clean up my face, which was caked with dried blood. My split lip was badly swollen but my nose seemed ok, despite the loud crack I’d heard when it collided with the wall. It was sore and twice it’s normal size but I didn’t think it was broken.
   I was in pain though, both of my hips ached but the worst of it came from my stomach and back. Lifting my shirt and craning around, I looked in the mirror and saw the purple bruises of a settling dusk across my back. My front didn’t look any better and I briefly considered marching myself to the nearest police station and turning the fucker in for child abuse. The thought gave me bitter pleasure and I actually managed a slight smile, which opened my lip again and made me wince.
   Holding a damp paper towel to my face, I exited the bathroom and the restaurant and aimed for the park across the street. The sun felt warm and wonderful and all I wanted to do was sleep, so I picked a spot that was mostly void of people, laid down and closed my eyes. I listened to all the sounds of any park on a bright summer afternoon: children playing, dogs barking, people laughing and sometimes arguing but never anything that sounded as if it would lead to violence.
   For a while, I was able to forget my family and that they’d finally succeeded in what had been their goal all along: for me to not exist.
   I dreamed of a world where it was them who had never existed at all.
14
   “Hey.” A male voice from somewhere faraway. “Hey, kiddo. Wake up.”
   I opened my eyes, expecting to see a cop but instead I saw a regular guy. He looked old to me, perhaps in his fifties and he was squinting down and smiling beneath an enormous nose. “You look like someone tried to make hamburger out of you, kid.”
   Intentionally frowning, I hoped he got the hint and would just leave me alone, but he didn’t. “What happened?” he asked. He sat down on the grass beside me with a vague groan.
   I also groaned and sat up, studying him. He wore khaki pants, and a beige polo shirt beneath a baby-blue windbreaker. He took a pack of smokes from his pocket, shook one out between his lips and offered me one. For some unknown reason, I accepted and thanked him after he lit it for me. I saw his eyes linger on my tongues but only briefly before returning to my face. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your dad did that to you, right?”
   I sucked on the cigarette and refused to respond.
   “Your boyfriend?”
   I did my best not to choke but I’m sure he noticed anyway. He looked away, nodding. “Your dad.” He said it automatically, without a trace of doubt. “You need to go to the hospital?”
   I shook my head but wondered. I certainly felt bad enough.

   
We smoked the rest of our cigarettes in silence, watching the passersby. When he was finished with his butt he flicked it away and held out his hand to me. “I’m Gus. Who are you?”
   Imitating him, I flicked my own butt away and accepted his greeting. He took my hand of tongues without blinking and I told him, “My name is Sky.”

   “
Sky the Outie, eh?” He smiled when he said it, showing me his cigarette-yellow teeth.
“Pleased to meet you.”
   “Likewise.”
   He tilted his head at me and asked, “So, you hungry? I’m buying.”
   With my stomach rumbling, I didn’t have to think for long. We’d still be in public and if he turned out to be a freak, I’d just scream my head off and run away. “Sure,” I said, smiling back.
   He helped me to my feet with his paper-dry but exceptionally soft hand and then we went in search of food.
15
   Gus treated me to a burger and fries and suggested I put some of the ice from my soda in a napkin and press it to my lip, which I did.
   “When we’re done here, we’ll go to the drugstore and I’ll buy you some aspirin. Ease the pain and get the swelling down.”
   I nodded, secretly waiting for him to spring the catch on me. I was sure he wanted me to jerk him off with my tongues and I wasn’t sure how I would respond when the request came. I didn’t want to be flat-out rude, since he was buying me things, but still. The idea was pretty gross and would make me a whore.
   But when we finished our food and headed out into the dwindling day, he still hadn’t mentioned what he wanted in return for his kindness. We simply walked up the street to CVS and he bought me aspirin and a Coke and a few packs of cigarettes for himself. After that, we headed back to the park and hung out. He did most of the talking, telling me that he ran a carnival and more often than not, recruited street kids to work for him.