This is dedicated to Heather, Roxanne, and Amanda. May God bless you, and please don't ever let anyone push you down. If they do. Push back. And if you can't push for yourself. I'll push for you. And if what is holding you down is you, then let me pull you up. I love you all. --- Bridget
"Get up!"
Heather sat up and looked around through sleepy eyes. She was dressed in an old yellowed triple X T-shirt. Her long dark brown hair hung in greasy matted clumps around her face. The soured sheet that she had slept under tangled around her feet. She glanced around her room blinking the sleep from her eyes as the old ceiling fan above her rattled and groaned with age, cutting and cutting the heat in the room, doubling and redoubling it.
"Baby, now get your shower and don't forget anything. Your jeans are in the washing machine. Bye, baby. Momma's got to go or I'm gonna be late."
Heather's mom bustled around the bedrooms gathering her purse and necessities for a long day as Store Clerk 12. Her tightly permed brown hair clung to her scalp and her brown stretch pants bulged unattractively. Heather watched her quietly, unmoving as her mother clattered out the door.
"Good morning to you dear." Heather whispered to the overstuffed dog with brown spots perched on her bed. Clothes, books, and old food, unquestioned rulers of the floor, dresser, and even the closet, were excluded from the dog's space. The dog marked the center of a clean radius in a panoramic room. The room smelled moldy, tomblike. The failure of the ceiling light three years ago contributed to the atmosphere. Heather slipped her hand into a pile of books at the foot of her bed. Casually, without looking she dislodged an enormous hardcover book with "Stephen King" blazoned in red across the cover. Burrowing down into her bed, careful to avoid the hole with the sprung spring,Heather opened her book, clicked on the blue flashlight from her night stand and started to read.
The first glow of dawn tinged the horizon and Heather stirred. She walked down the dark hall. Her feet whispered over the scratchy grey carpet. Heather didn't even flinch at the sour smell that came from the white door in front of her. Stepping into the kitchen, she flipped on the light. Roaches scattered off the counter, running from the dishes strewn around the room to the safety of the shadows. Quietly, she walked to the utility, where she extracted her jeans from the washer. "Too late for the dryer," she mumbled. Grunting she pulled the wet material over her too thick thighs and overly round stomach. She looked over at the shower through the utility door almost penently. Then she moved on through the kitchen not caring. She reentered her room and pulled a pair of dirty socks off the floor and onto her feet. Rummaging around on the floor, she found a blue shirt that appeared clean in the early morning light. Heather walked across the hall and into the pink glow of the bathroom. She took a brush to her greasy knotted hair, but after a few seconds she stopped. Calmly, she took her hair and did what she always did. She took the clumps of hair as one and started a french braid and she made it work.
Heather gathered her books to her and was careful to nab the hardback on the bed. She grabbed a slip of paper for a bookmark and noted pg 764. She nabbed a donut and started down the driveway. The last bite of donut disappeared as a big yellow Alcorn County school bus roared down the street. She shifted her books and waited. The bus screamed to a halt in front of her. Clomping and slouching she made her way to an empty green plastic seat. Heather positioned her books on the outer portion of the seat in defensive position, and opened her book. Then it started. It wouldn't end after that moment. A never ending degredation until 3:30, and it was her fault, and she didn't care. The little boys began taunting her quietly at first but more and more openly as the bus picked up speed and the clanking of the windows rattling in their frames intensified. Heather didn't move, didn't respond.
"What's a sixteen year-old who could have her licence doing on the bus?
"I don't know man. Maybe she smells too bad to get one. Did you forget your deodorant this morning?"
The bus pulled to a stop and Heather scribbled on her bookmark pg 803. Then she lugged her books onto her shoulder and slipped into the line to disembark. As she walked across the sidewalk she kept her head down. "Don't look up. If you don't look up they won't see you and they won't say it. They won't care if you don't look," the twisted logic ripped through her mind repeating over and over. Heather slipped into first period as the tardy bell rang.
The last days of school were always plagued by classes or whole days with nothing to do. A half day like that one was especially susceptible. Heather coasted through first period and second. They didn't have any work but the teacher let anyone leave who wanted to, so none of the loud ones stayed behind. She cut a path to the lobby as the break bell rang. Her book was molded into her side clutched under her arm. She threaded through the lines and crowds of kids as she slipped into the bathroom and locked herself into the last stall. The room smelled of ammonia and hair-spray. The lighting was poor but this place was safe. Girls came in and out but Heather never moved. She was crouched over the book spread over her lap. With the ringing of the bell her haven was reluctantly abandoned. "One more class. One more class and I'll go home. Only one more class," Heather repeated her chant over and over in her mind as though to convince herself. The worst class of her day, third period, all her enemies were there, and they would have nothing to do and nowhere to go, because Mrs. Sloan never let anyone go no matter how little was going on. Heather took her seat, and as the first fifteen minutes of class passed uneventfully, she felt hope, hope that today would end okay. Then Michael started.
"What is that white stuff in her hair? Why, God Almighty I think it's dandruff. Dang it what smells so damn bad. It's BO. Yea boys, that's what it is. Hey, Heather, did you take a bath today sweetheart, because you sure can't tell it? Hey, Heather what's wrong with your hair ?"
Heather didn't move. She remained poised over her book. Her face revealed nothing but concentration on the words in front of her face. Then something happen to undermine the careful shield that the words in front of her provided. She could ignore the boys. She could focus them away. But when Amanda tried to help, the pain that had been slowly building behind her eyes exploded into new intensity.
"Heather, there is something in your hair. You might want to do somethi ng about it. They're really making fun of you."
Amanda's words were kind, not snide like they could have been, and surprisingly Heather answered. "Is there really?" She had known that it was there but the words came out naturally almost c almly surprised. Heather stood up and asked Mrs. Sloan to be excused. Heather barely glanced at her teacher's curt nod as she ran to the bathroom. The florescent lights streamed down from the ceiling and the grey tile gleamed dully up at her. Heather really looked herself in the face for the first time in a long time, and the pain behind her eyes redoubled blocking every coherent thought from her mind. The tears streamed slowly down her face as she picked at the dandruff locked into the matted plait of her hair. Heather gave up the useless picking and smoothed down some of the fuzziness with some water. She held her head up and walked blearily toward the bathroom door. A student that she didn't know opened the door suddenly.
"Are you okay?" the pretty girl asked.
"I'm fine," Heather lied.
"Well, you look like you've been crying," the girl asked skeptically.
"Oh, I have been. I have really bad allergies this time of year, and my eyes run like a faucet."
The two girls passed each other without a parting word and Heather headed back to the classroom. She stood outside the door for several seconds. Her eyes focused on the red lockers that gleamed up and down the hall. Those were senior lockers, and she would have one of those in a couple of years. Then the focus to reenter the battle zone that she had fled only minutes before had to be marshaled. Walking out was so much easier than walking back in. She opened the door and like someone practiced at it, looked straight through everyone. She could stare right at your face without meeting your eyes. Heather made the transition from doorway to chair in only a few seconds and was refocused on her book moments later. The last minutes of class passed quietly until the bell rang and everyone rushed for the doors, but Heather was a few seconds behind the stampede as she stopped and scratched pg 1209 onto her bookmark and followed the rush for home.