I See You

Lyka

Home is such an unusual concept.

According to the dictionary, home is where you’re from and where you grew up in. That confuses me, because as far as I know I was born in another country. My parents were from different parts of this country, so I don’t know which of their homes do I call my own. And as for where I grew up in, it would be at the back of a moving truck.

According to cheesy hippie-dippy songs, home isn’t a place but it’s the people you love and love you back. That’s tricky, because so far life has proven to me that people repel from my mere presence. Besides, love is such an unusual concept too.

According to some anonymous cliché, home is a feeling. It’s where your heart is. It’s a sense of belonging somewhere, being part of something, loving and being loved by someone. It’s a fallback when everything goes wrong. It’s something you can rely on. It’s somewhere you feel safest. It’s someone that will always be there waiting for you.

According to me, home is a privilege.

Back when I was a kid, I didn’t like most toys that other kids liked. I didn’t like Barbies, baby dolls, plastic tea sets, easy-bake ovens, bouncy balls, jumping ropes or jigsaw puzzles. I liked building blocks. Whether it was the ABC stack blocks orJenga, I would always prefer them over playing dolls with the girls or basketball with the boys. Sometimes I’d just stack them up like a high tower, other times I would lay them out like a wide mansion. Gravity would often knock my higher stacked blocks off or pull my side blocks down, which forced me to find somewhere else to lay a sturdy foundation,like a less wobbly table or on the wide open floor.

Other times kids would come along to ruin it out of fun, of course, but it didn’t really bother me. I enjoyed rebuilding them the second time around or the third, but as soon as a fourth kid came along to knock it down once more, I’d eventually get sick of rebuilding and just leave them scattered.

Much like those blocks, my homes were of different shapes as well. I’ve lived in small apartments in high towers and houses as wide as mansions. I’ve made friends with neighbors and classmates alike, and it was fun for the first few times to know so much people. Then gravity would come along, and we’d have to move once more.

When the fourth and fifth and sixth time came around, I grew tired of rebuilding. It wasn’t until the sixth grade when I realized how pointless it was to build a home without a solid foundation. So from then on, I decided to stop trying.

* * * * *

For the first time since moving here to this part of the city, the lights inside the apartment were on when I arrived, which meant that someone went home before me. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by the stern and pouty face of the devil in corporate attire. Angel, how ironic.

“Do you know what it says on your schedule?” she said, fuming burgundy. She was furious.

“Yes, do you?” I said sarcastically. I knew I was pushing her buttons. I didn’t care.

“As a matter of fact, I do Lyka. But I don’t think that you do. It says your class ends at four in the afternoon, which means you should be here by 4:15. It’s 6:14, fourteen minutes past minor curfew. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you how dangerous this part of town is!”

“Then why don’t we just move somewhere else then?”

“Lyka, you should be a little bit more understanding by now,” she said more calmly, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. The red began to fading, slowly turning into a shade of auburn.

“I don’t have time to argue with you right now. I came here to check in on you. The school called. They said you got into trouble again. On the first two days of school? Really?”

“I can explain, but you won’t like it. You wouldn’t believe me. Nobody ever does.”

And just like that, she was blue.

“I can try, I really can. Just trust me, Tin-tin.”

“Don’t call me that. Just Lyka, please.”

“Lyka, you can talk to me. Always. You can trust me, I promise you that. I don’t want you to be like—” she paused. Her blue deepened.

“Like who?” I said with a twinge of anger. I knew who she meant. I’m tired of always being compared.

“You know very well who, Lyka. I’m worried about you, I really am.”

“I don’t believe you.” But I did. I just don’t want her to know that.

She sighed aslooked at her wrist watch. There were bags in the living room couches. I knew she couldn’t last a day. She saw me grin in disbelief. Her face turned pink, ashamed of her hypocrisy.

“I know this is last minute, but I really need to do this, Lyka. For the family.”

“How long?”

“This is a very important business meeting—”

“How long?”

“If I don’t do this, my career will fall apart, you have to see the gravity of the situatio—”

“HOW LONG?” I yelled, trying to stop my eyes from tearing up.

“Five days,” she said with her eyes closed

“Great,” I turned, trying not to cry.

She walked towards me with open arms, and I was too stiff to move away. I needed some time alone. But she needed to hug me, to wash away her pink. So I stood there and took it.

“Dad will be back from Kuwait by Friday. He won’t be around for most part, but at least you won’t spend nights alone by then. I’m trusting you to be good, okay? Can you do that? Please?”

“I can.”

Nope. Not really.

“Good,” she whispered, kissing my forehead. I was inches taller than her, but in those corporate heels it’s as if we were the same height.

“Will you stay for dinner?”

“I have a bus to catch. I bought fried chicken, it’s waiting for you at the table. Do your best in school okay? You’ll be graduating soon. You’ll soon understand all of this.”

“Go, you’ll be late. Good luck.”

“Bye. Stay in school,” she said, closing the door behind her.

I blame gravity.

***

Thirty minutes after she left, I put on new clothes, tied my hair up, and grabbed my wallet and left. It’s not like I’m doing any of this on purpose, it’s just I’d rather be outside than cooped up all alone in isolation. That’s how crazy people turn insane, and I’m not ready for insanity just yet. A lot of people turn to creative outlets to release their stored energy. Music, art, sports, all that s**t. But I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t like keeping in touch with “feelings” or releasing energy.

I like feeling lost.

To me, it’s a never ending game of hide and seek, and I’m winning.

Still, every now and then I’d turn to vices for some help calming down. I didn’t have friends, yes, but drinking buddies I had plenty. Many of them I know by face, others by name alone from stories and such. I’m the kid who picks up the tab, which I never really cared for. I don’t see it as people using me, but rather me using them for company. It’s better to pay for five bottles for five people than one bottle alone.

But I was new around here again, and I barely gave a f**k about the other students that I’ve met so far. So I guess I’m flying solo for now.

I personally didn’t think that the streets were all too dangerous at night. We lived in a sketchy neighborhood, sure, but if you don’t show any fear no one will even notice you. The drunk men may catcall and the streetlights may be busted, but if you walk with confidence nothing will bother you.

When I’m stressed, I’d usually avoid alcohol. To me, it’s a vice for pain relief and depression. It only makes stress worse. I smoke for stress. There’s a numbing sensation that passes through you when you take that first hit. It keeps you calm enough to think long and hard about the s**t you go through. That’s the downside, but meh.

After walking some time down the street where we livedtowards the main road that lead to the heart of the city, I saw a big flashing sign that said “open 24 hours” by the side of a small building. It was a mini mart, right across a dingy shack-like bar blaring with karaoke music and drunken screaming. It’s funny how poor the urban planning is in this neighborhood, because if you were to walk a couple of steps further from the bar, it was our school. I guess it’s good for business to have them so close to each other, but it’s funny how no one protested to it. I stood there in front of the convenience store for some time, watching people stumble out of the bar. Many of them looked like people my age with some makeup slapped onto their faces. It was funny for a while.

When I walked into the mini mart, there was already this long ass line full of drunk students with soda or chips on their arms. They only sold cigarettes over the counter, so I had to wait behind some bastards with all kinds of smells of sweat, beer, and vomit, which stressed me out even more. By the time it was my turn, the guy at the counter changed from a middle-aged dude to an old guy.

“Pack of menthols, please.”

“ID, miss,” he said sternly.

“I don’t have one.”

“Sorry, I don’t sell cigarettes to minors.”

“But those guys outside got some and I’m pretty sure they’re fifteen. I’m obviously eighteen.” Technically I will be next year.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need an ID. If you don’t have one, if ANY of you behind don’t have one, might as well get out!”

And so half of us did.

***

I stood once more on the side of the convenience store, watching the dumb f***s get dumber by the minute. I’m too pissed off to just go home empty handed. The bar across the street was red all over with hints of pink oozing out of the young girls and guys stumbling out. It looked tempting to join in, but I was still iffy about it.

A light tap on the shoulder surprised me out of nowhere. I looked at him with my eyes lit furiously until I realized that I knew this guy. It was him, the douche teacher, still in his white polo shirt with the brownish satchel he had on this morning. He had a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, unlit. He held out an opened pack in front of me. I wasn’t sure what to do.

“Wha? Don wan one?” he mumbled. With some slight hesitation, I took one.

“Um, thank you sir…?”

He took out a box of matches from his front pocket and lit his cigarette as well as mine. We stood there silently, watching the drunk dumb f***s together.

“Who the hell parties on a Tuesday night?” he brought up casually.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

“I should be asking that, kid. I thought I told you to go straight home.”

Home.

“I did, but s**t happened.”

“Ease up on the language, kid. I’m still your teacher. Watch your f*****g mouth.”

I laughed nervously, not knowing if it were a joke or if he was being serious.

“Follow up on the teacher thing, exactly how are you a real teacher?”

“My license is real.”

“Why then would you give me a cigarette?”

“You really wanted one, I could tell.”

“Do you not see why this is wrong?”

“Not really.”

“For starters, it’s against the law for minors to smoke.”

“So?”

“Most of all, you’re a teacher, for some reason. Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to smoke? I mean, cancer, right?”

He killed his cigarette and lit another one, taking a hit before he looked at me to explain.

“Kid, I was thirteen when I had my first cigarette. It’s no big deal. I didn’t manipulate you into getting a stick; you took one out of free will. I could be all hypocritical about it and try to convince you not to smoke, but I’m not that type of teacher. I only teach what I know.”

“That’s a pretty good point.”

“Want another?”

“No thanks. This is, uh, pretty strong.”

“Don’t like it?”

“I prefer menthol.”

“Ah. Sorry, I don’t like menthol. That’ll have to do.”

“Yeah, I know. I really needed this tonight. Thank you.”

“No problem. A friend once told me that if there are two things you ought to share, one of them would be cigarettes.”

“Cool. What’s the other thing?”

“Tampons.”

I looked at him with utter confusion.

“My friend was a girl.”