“I’m just saying, don’t you think this is kind of a bullshit war?” She shrugged as if she had it all figured out. I felt Tosha’s hand on my lower back.
I kept my tone even. “I don’t know. And, no one will know for a long time. But, what I do know is that soldiers agree to follow orders when the President deems their service necessary. They don’t question it. They just protect us because it’s in their guts to do it. Even if you don’t support the mission, you have to support the soldiers.”
A few people stopped talking to listen to our conversation, neither one of us cared.
For a chick wearing a “Hampshire College” shirt, she sure didn’t seem to know when to shut up. “Typical. Jumping on the bandwagon cause-of-the-minute. Meanwhile those ‘valiant soldiers’ you talk about are making bank on our dime while they’re drinking on a base somewhere in the desert and fucking the local women, or the women in their own unit.”
In a flash, the beer left the bottom of my Solo cup and splashed all over her face. A few people applauded and some gasped. My eyes clouded in rage and tears.
“You’re a fucking bitch. In spite of that, my boyfriend would still serve your ass, since you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”
“Okay.” Liz stepped between us as the girl muttered an unflattering c-word under her breath. “You,” Liz turned and addressed her, “get out. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked, trying to avoid bursting into tears in a room full of strangers.
Liz pointed the way and I pushed past the crowd and locked myself into the tiny bathroom. Closing the lid, I sat down on the toilet and buried my face in my hands, letting out every guttural sob I’d been holding in all semester. I hadn’t been questioned about the war, or my connection to it, at all. My first round did not go so well. My friends on campus knew about Ryker, and would ask from time to time, but I was mostly left alone about it.
A single confrontation with some hardened bitch left me trembling with anger and more anxiety. I shakily unclasped the ribbon from my jacket and stared at it in my hands.
“Please come home, Ryker. Please,” I whispered to the ribbon, as if it had a direct line to Ryker’s ears.
The tip of the pin caught my eye, and instantly I remembered how good it felt when I punched the shit out of my bathroom the day Ryker left. Immediately, my mind scanned to the Sociology of Women class, where we’d recently discussed self-destructive behaviors of women in the United States. I nodded along during the self-mutilation lecture, understanding a small bit of how it could feel good inflicting physical pain to try to dull emotional pain.
Still staring at the point on that pin, I brought it down to my wrist.
I’ll just try it once. Just to see if it still feels good.
I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket.
“Nat? Nat, are you okay in there?” Tosha startled me with a knock on the door.
“Yeah, I just need a minute, K?”
“K.” She mumbled to someone that I’d be out in a minute and the fading clomp of the heels of her boots announced her exit, while I continued rolling up my sleeve.
I brought the pin down to the top of my forearm, by my elbow, and barely pressed the pin in; I just dragged it lightly a few inches down my arm. Goosebumps sprang from my head to my toes and I watched the red mark trail the pin. Adrenaline immediately kicked in, and the sense of a rush took over. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at the popcorn ceiling of the bathroom and started again. Pushing a little harder this time, I closed my eyes and breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, until I reached my wrist.
I cried a little more, but it wasn’t from a place of pain; it was from the euphoric rush of release. I wanted to slap the bitch that inferred my boyfriend and his friends were lazy rapists. I wanted to talk to Ryker whenever I wanted to, and I wanted to kiss him until my lips fell off. I wanted his body on top of mine as we made love in my dorm room. But, I couldn’t do or have any of that. All I could control was that pin running up and down my forearm until it started to bleed and I was high.
I quickly washed and dried my arm before rolling down the denim sleeve. I kissed the yellow ribbon once before pinning it back on my jacket.
Please come home.
*
Before I know it, I have to get my shit together and go get Max and Ollie from preschool. Looking down at my legs, I cringe; it looks like I ran through pricker bushes.
Shit. What did I just do?
I dump the last of the peroxide over my legs and throw my shorts in the hamper. I pull on a long, flowing skirt, plaster on my best mommy-smile and drive to pick up my boys.
“Hi Natalie, the boys had a good day today.” Miss Jennifer, the preschool teacher, is always smiling. Always. Why anyone chooses to work with 4-year-olds day in and day out is beyond me. But believe me, I’m glad someone does.