First, silence.
Miss Smith says, “Well that was awkward, wasn’t it?”
Answers follow:
“I don’t know why she even came back.”
“She’s so weird!”
“Drama!”
“Can’t make it as an artist if you don’t have thick skin.”
Laughter.
That’s when I start walking. I go to my locker to empty what’s left inside. Thick skin? I have thick skin. They have no idea.
Someone is sleeping in front of the locker I decide is mine. I see his pink rain boots first. His head is resting on a balled-up coat and his face is covered by a filthy cap. He has one arm slung through a backpack strap. The other arm cuddles a can of spray paint.
I decide he’s welcome to whatever’s in the locker.
Anyway, it’s not about thick skin. It’s about one of them being a liar. Or all of them being liars—even Miss Smith.
It’s a long story.
When I get out of the building, I open my umbrella and walk home rather than taking the bus. It’s not raining. No one seems to care that my umbrella is open. Philadelphia is full of all kinds of crazy people. Maybe I’m one of them now. Yesterday I had a conversation with myself in seven years. This might make me crazy. Yesterday I changed my name to Umbrella.
? ? ?
When I get home, there’s a message blinking on the house phone’s answering machine and I listen to it. It’s the daily Sarah-isn’t-in-school-today message. I delete it and walk up the steps toward my room. I don’t have any homework because homework isn’t original and I’m not going back to real school tomorrow. Or ever.
At the top of the stairs there is a decorative mirror on the wall and a trio of pictures of my parents and me. I am not an only child. My brother is nine years older and lives out west and he doesn’t contact us anymore. He wrote me a private message on The Social about a month ago with just his phone number. Then I deleted my profile because what’s the point of having a profile if nobody wants to talk to you?
The last I heard about Bruce was that his church people are his family now. Mom and Dad never baptized us, so Bruce got himself baptized. Apparently he got naked in a river or a lake or something. Dad said that that’s why he doesn’t contact us. Dad said Bruce thinks he’s better than we are because he found God.
This was a while ago, so I don’t really know if any of it is true.
This was Dad, so I don’t know if he’s the right person to believe when it comes to Bruce.
I think that’s why Bruce sent me his phone number. Maybe he wants to set the record straight. Maybe he wants to convert me. Maybe he has cancer and will die soon. Maybe he got married and had a baby. If I don’t call him, then nothing will happen.
? ? ?
Mom gets home from the grocery store and after unloading bags in the kitchen, she walks up the stairs and sees me standing here and asks me if I’m okay.
“I’m fine.”
“You went to school?”
“Yes.”
“Was it good?”
“Nothing ever really happens,” I say.
“Okay,” she answers and then walks toward the bathroom.
When she comes out of the bathroom, I’m still standing here and listening to the world. It’s pretty quiet. Traffic outside is picking up, but no one is honking their horn and no car alarms are going off. The neighbors on both sides of us work until five and their kids won’t be screaming up the block until six or so.
Mom comes out of the bathroom.
“Are you on drugs?” I imagine she asks.
I get asked this question a lot. For the record, no. I am not on drugs.
I say, “I’m thinking about taking a trip somewhere.”
“School, Sarah.”
“Maybe just a weekend thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I could go out and see Bruce.”
She looks concerned. We don’t talk about Bruce. I don’t see what’s so scary about him.
? ? ?
When Dad gets home I’m still standing at the top of the steps in the dark.
Since I don’t say anything to him, he’s the first one to speak. “Holy shit, Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you doing up here in the fucking dark? Christ! You scared the shit out of me!” That’s what he says.
Shitty Hair
I’m at the bus stop again. This isn’t the same bus stop as the other day. Philadelphia has a lot of bus stops.
I was thinking last night about our trip to Mexico when I was ten. It’s the last time I saw Bruce. I don’t remember some things from that trip. I remember the fish. I remember the food. I remember the flight home—me and Dad in two seats up front so Dad had extra legroom, Bruce and Mom in two seats a few rows back even though Bruce needed leg room, too. Maybe the answer to why Bruce left us is still there in the airplane. Maybe if I find ten-year-old Sarah the way twenty-three-year-old Sarah found me, I can ask her.
? ? ?
She’s on the bus, sitting in the long backseat, so I sit next to her when I get on.
I say to her, “Did you know that there’s no such thing as an original idea?”
She says, “Okay.”
I say, “I want to have original ideas.”