Buried Secrets

Chapter 4: Friends and Enemies-2

At last Algebra groans to a close and it’s time for another adventure in failure: Chemistry. I had not chosen to take Chemistry; had avoided it thus far in Daytona by taking Environmental Science in my sophomore year. But Butler requires Chemistry for all juniors regardless of previous coursework, so here I am. I make my way to what’s becoming my accustomed place at the table closest to the back door—just in case there’s a fire or an explosion in the classroom. This table seems to be reserved for those who are either really bad at chemistry or social outcasts—or both. Today the group consists of me, a girl with olive skin and wavy dark hair, and an African-American girl with her hair pulled so tightly into braids that she looks like she has a constant headache. She’s in American History with me in the morning, so I’m pretty sure her name is Trinity, or Unity…or something vaguely religious like that. I smile at her and pass the worksheet around to my tablemates.

The long-haired girl speaks first, “Hey, Charity—here we go again…Emelia, right?” I nod. “I’m Hillary. Don’t worry, we may not get a good grade, but we haven’t actually set any fires yet.”

“This week,” adds Charity.

A laugh escapes my mouth. This period might not be so bad today. We settle in and read the instructions, collect the materials from the storeroom, and start setting up. I volunteer, as the least experienced, to record the process. We have a few false starts, and make quite a mess, but actually manage to get the desired outcome. As I’m writing up our process and outcome on the daily log, I notice Hillary taking her dark hair down in order to tidy it up before the end of the period. As she lets it out of the several clips and bands holding it, the wavy mass seems to take on a life of its own, spilling into her lap and down her back. Hillary sees me watching and grimaces.

“What a mess, huh? At the start of every school year, I beg my mom to let me cut it. It’s a pain in the ass to take care of.”

“It is pretty, though.” I’m careful not to say anything more personal.

“Pretty or not, I swear I’m cutting it short my first week in college. Away from the parental units!”

I can think of lots of replies to this, but decide that discretion is the better part of valor in this case. I pack up my stuff and prepare for the final ordeal of the day: P.E. Charity has already left the classroom and Hillary has tamed her Italian roots into submission and headed toward the front exit. I choose the rear—down the back stairs to the hellhole that is Butler High School’s gym. The only saving grace today is that I get to stay for Creative Writing after school.

I’m not wrong about the anticipated sinister nature of girls in the locker room at Butler. They seem to be obsessed with pointing out someone as a lesbian the minute one girl stares a bit too long at another. As usual, I have to undress in front of these stupid girls and put on red shorts and a white T-shirt, and then take a shower after class ends. A recipe for disaster…

This afternoon, when I’m in the middle of changing, I look over at the girl next to me: Keshia Moody, who’s slim and curvy and cute. I can’t help but notice. Immediately, I look away and pull on my shirt, covering my vulnerable-feeling breasts. I guess I’m blushing pink, because Keshia frowns and moves away from me. And Deshawn Johnson, who basically rules the school, giggles in a most snarky way. Then everyone looks over at me, which feels like a swarm of wasps converging on my person.

During class, the incident seems to be forgotten; we play volleyball and my team loses—whatevs. I guess the part that freaks me out the most is that I did look at Keshia, and I did notice her body. I hate this—I hate me.

* * * *

The Creative Writing group is dope, the best thing that’s happened to me in Shively. Ms. Schell runs it like a professional Writer’s Workshop; each member (there are eight at the first meeting) will have a turn to bring copies of their work for everyone and the discussion that day will focus on helping that author. I must admit, this is one aspect of Shively that is way better than Daytona. At my old school, the only writing happening on official school time was the time-honored and deathly boring “five-paragraph essay.”

After the workshop, I am anxious to get home to my computer. I’m waiting for Aunt Penny’s tan Camry to pull up in front of the school. I know she means to pick me up, but I also know Penny isn’t the most organized person. Good thing she only has to be responsible for feeding herself and her hamster—and now her wayward niece.

Finally she pulls up, with a smile and a “Hey there, Emmy” for me.

“How was the meeting, Em?”

“Dope…I mean, great. You know how much I like Ms. Schell—and I think the group will really help me with my writing…”

“That’s great. I want you to be okay here, you know.”

“I do know, Penny. I appreciate everything you’re doing. Really.”

“Thanks, Em. I hate to tell you this now when you’re in a good mood, but your mom called after you left this morning. She wants you to call her back tonight.”

* * * *

So I’m sitting at the counter in Penny’s kitchen after dinner, watching Charlotte stuff hamster pellets and bits of carrot into her cheeks, and waiting for my mom to pick up. I’m literally praying this conversation doesn’t ruin the high I still have from the Creative Writing meeting, surrounding me with a comfortable cushion of acceptance. It was also huge fun to talk about my writing at dinner while enjoying my aunt’s stellar beef burgundy and crescent rolls.

Now poor Penny, as usual during phone calls between Daytona and Shively, is also perched on a counter stool, smoking and making tapping noises with her nails. I’m grateful for her support, but the tick-tick-tick is tightening the knot in my stomach.

“Hello? Is that you, honey? Emelia?”

Heavy sigh. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here. Aunt Penny said you called…?”

“I did. I just want to know you’re getting on there, and maybe making friends with some…nice girls. (Translation: nice-totally-straight-Christian girls.) Are you?”

The dinner I so enjoyed turns to stones in my stomach. Why does everything she says make me remember the look on her face when she walked in the bedroom that Saturday morning? Is she trying to make me feel guilty, or is it just my own internal condemnation?

“Mom, everything’s okay here. I went to the Creative Writing Club today—it was great—it’s with Ms. Schell, my English teacher—part of school….”

“Well, that sounds like…fun, Em.” The discomfort she obviously feels talking to me hangs in the air of the kitchen like the fog driving into Daytona on a winter morning. We have winters in Florida; it just doesn’t get very cold. I wait for my mom to say more.

“Mom, I need to go—I have homework to do and school starts so early here…”

She sounds relieved. “Of course, Emelia. I do love you, you know—in spite of…everything.” Everything. As if all my good qualities are somehow mitigated by my problem.

Another heavy sigh. “Mom, I love you, too, gotta go, here’s Penny.” I hand the phone over like the baton in a relay race.

Penny takes it from my hand and reluctantly says, “Hi, Andrea. How’s everything in Daytona?” And then (cleverly preventing further discussion of me,) “How’s your job going? Did you get that situation ironed out with Marlon?”

My aunt motions me out of the kitchen with a wave of her hand and a wink. We both know my Mom’s favorite topic is the trials and tribulations she suffers daily at the hands of her evil troll of a Walmart branch manager. I’m free to go back to my puke-colored room and start a new poem.