Stains When Broken by Force

That summer while I waited for the new school year and the new school, the promise of adventure and a reunion with Stacy, I spent most of my time with Jamie. The latest move had closed half the distance between us, and we were both grateful. He rode his bike to my house and we climbed out my window to sit in the sun, stuffing handfuls of Big League Chew gum in our mouths and popping tar bubbles on the roof. Much of the time we spent together passed in comfortable silence. Our thoughts kept us busy and we were content with just being together.

There comes a point in the chewing life of a wad of gum where it reaches a rubber-like consistency, void of flavor, no longer capable of being pulled over the tongue and braced with the lips for bubble blowing. At this stage, it is necessary to take the wad of gum out of your mouth and stretch it into a thin membrane manually with your fingers, then place it back in your mouth to wrap around your tongue and blow the bubble. Jamie taught me this. Genius! The trick is getting your fingers free enough of tar from popping hot tar bubbles to handle the chewed gum somewhat sanitarily. Wiping them off with your shirt works as long as the tar is still warm and relatively viscous. Otherwise, dragging them across the rough denim of your cut-off jeans works well.

Sitting on the roof one hot Sunday afternoon, the sun teasing beads of sweat from our pores, the breeze running its fingers through our hair, Sophie and Heather running in a sprinkler in the back yard beneath us. Jamie lifted his black, tar-covered fingers to my face and said: “Jessie says this’s what my blood looks like.”

Jessie was Jamie’s new girlfriend. We had spent hours earlier that same afternoon talking about the prospect of kissing and how it would be done.

“Nonsense. You’re blood is red just like mine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, stupid. All human beings have red blood. Animals, too, for that matter.”

“I’m black.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You never seen my blood.”

“Have you seen your blood?”

“I think so.”

“And was it like tar?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I promise you, it’s not like tar.”

“But how do you know? Jessie says—”

“What is Jessie doing talking to you about blood anyway?”

“She asked me to be her blood brother.”

A hot, slithery length of jealousy snaked its way around my stomach and up to my neck; my face blanched.

“You didn’t, did you?”

“No way. I thought I should be your blood brother.”

Relief.

“What makes you think I want you to be?”

“You’re my best friend! I just thought—”

“I’m kidding. It’s a perfect idea. This way, I can prove to you what color your blood is.”

We went inside and found a needle in my sewing kit. We struck a match and held the tip of the needle in the flame until the matchstick burnt down to my thumb and forefinger. The chrome tip of the needle turned as black as our tarred fingers. Jamie held out his thumb. I took it in my hand and pricked the padded center. It resisted at first, but I pressed harder and twisted the sharp tip. A bright red pearl emerged from the small puncture. We looked up at each other, Jamie smiling brilliantly, the whites of his teeth and eyes glittering against his dark face. He held his thumb carefully so as not to spill the drop of blood while I pricked my own thumb. The pain took my breath in sharply; but because he hadn’t made a sound, I kept myself composed. We pressed our thumbs together and held them there for a full minute.

Neither of us spoke. The moment was much too serious for words. We sat for a few moments longer looking at our blood-covered thumbs, then crawled back out on the roof. Now he really was my brother. I lay back on the shingles, rested my head on my hands, turned my face to the sun, closed my eyes, smiled. I heard Jamie lie down next to me and listened to the sounds of Sophie and Heather laughing below us.

Jamie began talking about his sister and Sophie and how he hoped they would become good friends. His parents had been pressuring him to take Heather with him when he went anywhere; otherwise, she would be left at home alone. I sympathized with him. I could tell he considered her his own responsibility. People would often stare at her when we were out together, drawn to look closer at her twisted mouth and make sure that what they thought they saw had been real. One time in the White Hen, a boy stood and stared in Heather’s direction with his mouth hanging open. Jamie became very defensive, standing in front of her, and glaring back with a scowl. The boy saw him and quickly looked away. Heather slapped Jamie on the back. “Quit standin’ there, Jamie; let’s get some candy,” she said, looking at the rows of sugary snacks, oblivious.

After talking about Sarah and Sophie for a while, Jamie turned the topic to my mom’s new husband. How did I like him? Was he nice to us? Instead, I talked about my mother, her drunken parties and the strange men, her fights with Gram and her empty promises.

“Why don’t you call your Gram, tell her your mom’s being crazy and stupid?” he suggested.

“She’s not stupid,” I said. “She’s not crazy either. She lost her husband. She lost our dad!” I was surprised at my defensiveness.

“All right, take it easy,” he said. “I know it must be hard for her, but she needs to act better, take care of you guys.”

“I know, but I think she’s getting a little better. Jake’s nice. He’s not like the other losers she brought around,” I said.

“Jaaaaaeeeeeeeeeem!” Heather called.

“Yeah,” he called back.

“I’m ready to go! You gotta walk me home!”

“OK, be right down.”

He turned to me and held up his thumb then kissed it and held it against his chest.
“Blood buddies,” he said.

“Blood buddies,” I answered.

He hopped out the window and left. I sank my index finger into a large tar bubble I had been letting grow for at least five minutes and wiped it against my shirt. I looked at my bloody thumb and lay back. I fell asleep under the shade of a maple tree and began to dream.

I was in bed with Sophie asleep when I heard the door opening and looked up to see my mom and a strange man coming in. The strange man walked over to a dark hump on the bedroom floor and began doing something to it. When the door opened wider, light fell across the hump revealing it as the dead body of my father. The strange man was cutting a hole in his chest and pulling out his heart as well as other organs and clumps of veins. My mom was slowly advancing toward me, her eyes wild, her body hunched forward, and her hands reaching out before her in my direction. She was holding something large in her right hand. Soon I could see it was some sort of device with a long, wide, tapered needle and a trigger. When she reached me she grabbed my hand and shot the needle through the meat between my palm and thumb. She pulled the trigger and a large plastic tag released from the device and attached to my hand. As she shot the needle through another part of my hand, I screamed.
“MOM, OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS IT?”

“It renders stolen garments unusable by releasing a dye stain when the tag is broken by force, thus removing the benefit of stealing the garment,” she droned mechanically without looking at me. I started trying to fight her off but felt incredibly weak as she continued shooting tags into me all up my arm while calmly telling me about the device she was attacking me with in an eerie, low monotone.

“At its heart, the tag has a dye container, comprising a patented glass ampoule with gas pressure designed to explode if broken and thus spray dye over the garment.”

At this she grabbed one of the tags and bit it in a snarling, animal-like manner, crushing the plastic gadget and exploding thick, hot, black tar all over both of us.
When I woke up, I was covered in sweat and could feel the sunburn on every exposed portion of skin. I crawled inside to find Sophie in our room cutting out new paper dolls.

I Don't Fight Like a Girl

Mom worked less and drank more and went through innumerable boyfriends and one night stands until she met Jake Zabrowski, then she stopped working. Jake wasn’t the first relationship she tried after my father but he was the first that stuck. He was tall and thick with a balding head and tattoos. He owned and operated a motorcycle repair shop and sales center and he had connections. Within three months, he and my mother were married. He moved us into his house about two miles away in Lincoln Square.
We had to switch schools again, just three months before the end of the school year. We started out in Carl Von Linne School, me in 7th grade and Sophie in 5th. Before my dad died, Sophie and I went to St. Agnes of Bohemia.

Sending us to Catholic school was something that had always been important to him. We transferred from there to St. Benedictine when we moved to Wellington. This was the first time we had been in a Chicago public school and the difference was striking. The kids in my class were at least a year behind me in math, science, and reading. Sophie’s class didn’t even know about the periodic table of elements. It was impossible to make friends, so Sophie and I kept to ourselves, sitting together at lunch everyday and going home right after school. I learned nothing during my time at that school, save perhaps survival skills and what happens when someone picks on my little sister.

A husky girl decided, one morning before school, to push Sophie around and steal her new transformer watch that she had saved up weeks of allowance to buy. I was in the school at the time getting my books for the day from my locker. Sophie came to find me after it happened. She looked terrified.

“What happened?” I asked. Sophie pushed the heal of her palm into her eyes.

“Becca took my trans… former… wa…!” She started crying. I pulled her around the corner where less people could see us.

I stood with my arm around her, a shield from curious eyes, and waited for her to settle down. Sophie collected herself, caught her breath.

“She said she wanted money. I told her I didn’t have any. She shoved me down and took my transformer watch. She said that would do for today but that I better bring her money tomorrow,” she cried. I lifter her chin and took her by the shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Soph. I’ll get it back. I’ll take care of this,” I said.

Becca Moorer was in my gym class. She was bigger than me, taller and meatier, with long, pink-streaked hair and a stern, handsome face. I was intimidated by her, but she would not get away with bullying my sister; I would talk to her myself.

That afternoon, I watched Becca running laps around the perimeter of the gym, raw fear rising in my chest. I was at least three inches shorter than her; my beanpole physique did not serve as well as her ampleness for striking fear into people. I strode confidently in her direction and stepped in front of her as she rounded the corner and lumbered her way up the white line in my direction. Hands on my hips, my face fixed, deadly serious. She stopped about a foot in front of me, taken off guard; for a moment she seemed merely surprised that I was in her way. She perceived that I was threatening her and growled at me to move out of her way.

“If you ever touch my sister again,” I tried hard to keep my voice steady, “I will end you.” I had no idea from where that particular choice in words had come, nor did I expect that I could ever deliver on that promise, but I couldn’t unsay it, so I acted like I meant it. She stood silent, astonished. I didn’t wait for her to regain her composure; I turned and walked into the locker room.

I made it to my locker, trembling with adrenaline. The door exploded open and Becca came barreling in, half the class following to watch what would happen. I faced her squarely. She smashed her hulking frame against me, chest puffed out, still breathing heavily from her run. I looked up at her. Dark eyes flashing under a glistening, flat forehead, stringy pink stands snaking across it like veins.

“What did you say, Bitch?” A spray of spittle landed on my nose. Her teeth and tongue were visible through her slightly open mouth; my guts twisted.

I placed my hands against her chest and extended them out, gently pushing her arms-length away from me. Her face contorted in fury and her fist clenched.
I watched her meaty arm and balled hand arc through the air toward my face and did nothing. I don’t remember feeling the blow when it connected; the adrenaline had extinguished all pain and fear. She grabbed my shirt, swung again, I shoved her hard and her fist whirred centimeters before my face. She came at me; I grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head and yanked down hard. She was bent backwards, face up, hands flailing. I used my free hand to knock against her face with short, sharp blows, like pounding on a door. Over and over again, I smashed my fist against her face: thud, thud, thud.

I felt her skin crack beneath my fist and saw the blood on my hand. I paused, enough time for her to break free and try to immobilize me in a headlock. I hopped out of reach and continued clobbering her blindly; wild, thrashing slugs that met with her stomach, her arm, her face. She screamed for me to stop, crying now, and the gym teacher grabbed us by the backs of our shirts, one in each hand, and tore us apart.
We stood panting and sweating. A purple-maroon bruise circled a wide cut on her cheekbone, beginning to swell one eye shut. She held her elbow gingerly against her.

“I think you broke my arm!” she whined, her livid face stunned.

I couldn’t move. The other kids dispersed. The teacher told us to get dressed and come to her office. I caught my reflection in the mirror as Becca walked away. There was not a single mark on me. I had beaten Becca Moorer. I had actually kicked her ass.

I sat beside Becca in the principal’s office and listened to her version of what happened.

“Listen, we’re actually friends. We were just playing around, pushing each other, and it got a little outta hand, OK? We don’t mean no harm, really! Right, Jane?” She leaned with her elbow on the armrest of the chair, trying to cover her swollen eye casually with her hand. I just stared at her.

“Is that true, Jane?” Mr. Fisher asked me. He was a short, dark man with black eyes. His left arm was too short and it rested limply across his belly. I nodded my head.

“That’s not what I heard,” he said, “sounds to me like it was a real knock ‘em down drag ‘em out fight.”

“No!” said Becca, laughing. I gave a nervous laugh.

“Normally,” he said, and paused, leaning back in his chair and placing his feet up on the corner of his desk, “I give out a week to three weeks at-home suspension for any fights.” We waited for the punishment sentence.

“I appreciate that you’re making peace with each other here and I trust this won’t happen again—” Another pregnant pause.

“So I’m giving you a one day in-school suspension. You can serve it tomorrow.
All of your class work will be delivered to you in the detention room.”

“Aw, come on! Can’t you just give us like seven detentions instead?” Becca whined.

“No!” he barked. “Suspension is mandatory for fighting. This is minimal, believe me; be grateful!”

Walking down the hall to our classes a minute later, Becca slapped my back and said: “We cool, man?”

“I think we’re fine,” I said. “But I want you to give my sister her watch back and apologize to her.” She nodded, smiled, and stuck out her hand. I shook it.

After school, I met Sophie in our usual place to walk home. She stood waiting with her lunch box and stared wonderingly at me as I approached.

“How did you do it, Jane? She looked like someone threw her down the stairs!”
I laughed and threw my arm around her.

We walked home buoyantly, brought to life by the miracle of what had unfolded. I told her the whole story, leaving nothing out. Sophie squealed in pleasure at the description I gave her of knocking on Becca’s face with my fist, and shrieked in laughter when I told her how Becca whined and sniveled that I broke her arm. I surprised myself with the level of detail I recalled. I was drunk with adrenaline, which itself amazed me. How could human beings have a hormone released at the precise moment when they need extraordinary amounts of strength, courage, and fearlessness the most? Such intricate, wondrous creatures we are.

The suspension was the most peaceful day I had at that school.

We didn’t suffer long there because Jake knew some people and got us on a waiting list for the Northside Catholic Acadamy. Within a month, Sophie and I were accepted into the noble aristocracy. I was elated; it was the same school that Stacy attended.