Toxic (Better Than You) (2 page)

“I don’t know what that means but it sounds pretty bad.”
I shrug my shoulders, because I don’t know what it means either. “How come your Mom never drives you to school?” she asks.

“She doesn’t have a car.”

“So how does she go to work?”

“She doesn’t go to work.”

“How do you have a house and clothes if she doesn’t work?”

I sigh, because I don’t know how it works, just that it does. “I don’t know, Cat. I never really thought about it.”

But I think about it the rest of the day and when I get home I ask Mama.

“Mama, how do we have a house and clothes and TV if you don’t have a job?”

The only thing worse than when Mama pays attention to me is when she’s mad and I can tell I’ve made her mad right away. Her face gets all red and she stomps over to me before grabbing my arm and dragging me to my room. “Don’t you dare ask any more questions, you ungrateful little bitch.”

And then she throws me on my bed and slams the door shut behind her. Later on, while I’m sitting on the floor looking at my favorite book, I hear Dave come in and then I hear them both go into Mama’s room. They laugh and talk and then there are other noises, like the bed is banging against the wall and it sounds like Mama is being hurt but I don’t go check on her because I don’t care if she’s getting hurt.

When it turns dark outside, I get on my pajamas and get into bed after making sure the door is locked. After I’m under the covers, I reach over and turn off the light and hide under my blankets because I hate the dark but only at first. Until my eyes can finally see. Then I pull the blankets down because I hate breathing underneath them and I wait and listen.

At first I don’t hear anything except for the crickets outside and the car horns and the music that always seems to be playing. Then I hear Mama and Dave snoring and I let go of the breath I’
m holding but I don’t stop listening. I sit there in the dark, listening for a long time until my eyes feel so heavy and I can’t keep them open any longer. But I never hear the doorknob jiggle so I know it’s safe to finally close my eyes.

~~

The next day at school, Cat doesn’t sit next to me. I don’t think much of it because she got to school late, but then she doesn’t sit next to me at lunch either. For the rest of week I sit in class and at lunch alone. Nobody else talks to me except for Ms. Ortiz and I think she only does it because she has to. I don’t let it make me sad because it’s better to pretend I don’t care.

But on the next Monday at school I see Cat sitting and laughing with other girls and I get mad because she used to sit and laugh with me and now I’m all alone. And when I walk up to her and stand in front of her and the laughing girls, she looks at me all sad.

“How come you don’t sit with me anymore?” I ask her with my hands on my hips and trying to keep from crying. I don’t like to cry in front of people.

“My Mom said I can’t be friends with you anymore because you’re toxic.”

I squint my eyes at her and think. “What does that even mean?”

She just shrugs her shoulders and looks at her food. I know she’s not gunna answer so I walk back to my table and sit down but I don’t eat my food because suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.

The bus ride home feels longer than usual and it’s hotter than ever. For once I can’t wait to get home because I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s just me and Mama against the world.

I walk into the house expecting to see Mama and Dave on the couch like always, but the TV room is empty and so is the kitchen. Mama’s room is empty too, so I walk out to the patio and finally find Mama sitting all by herself smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t say hi or ask how my day was or wonder why I’m looking for her. She just blows out some smoke and looks out at the yard quietly.

“Mama, what does toxic mean?”

Just when I’m about to get up and go inside because I don’t think she’s gunna answer, she puts a hand on my arm and stops me. I turn and look at her because I’m surprised she’s touching me so softly. A puff of smoke blows into my face and I hold my breath while I meet her eyes. She’s actually looking at me and I don’t know how to feel about it.

“That’s the stuff you and me are made up of, Sugar Plum,” she says. Another puff of her cigarette but she blows it away from me this time. “We’re toxic, but only the best things are.”

January 6
th
, 1998

             
“Logan! Get your shit out of the TV room!”

             
Rolling my eyes, I get off of my bed and walk out to the TV room. I pick up all of my stuff, careful not to knock over Mom’s beer or jostle the pills on the coffee table.

             
“Hey Lo,” Mom’s boyfriend of the week says to me. I don’t respond because I never do, not because this one’s weird or looks at me strange. He’s actually pretty normal looking and seems kinda nice. I don’t know why he hangs around Mom. All I know is that he’ll be gone soon, just like the rest of them and I don’t want to know his name or his story.

             
As I’m getting up, Mom grabs my arms and squeezes so hard that a squeal escapes my lips. “Don’t make me have to tell you about your shit. Ever. Again.” Each word is followed by a fingernail digging into the back of my arm. Little pieces of spit hit me in the face because she’s talking to so close. When she lets go, I fall back on my butt and then scramble to right myself. I turn and walk to my room and ignore the burn from her hand.

             
“Jesus, babe, she’s just a kid,” I hear Mom’s boyfriend tell her.

             
And then I shake my head and close my door and wait for the yelling and the cursing and the throwing of the very few movable pieces of furniture we have, to begin. No one tells Mom how to deal with me. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and stay out of her way and it works out just fine for the both of us. When people ask questions, which they do a lot, I pretend I have no idea what they’re talking about because Mom has reminded me a lot of times that it could be worse. I could get taken away and end up in a home where kids beat each other to death. Or where the parents only take us to get paid more money and we have to fight for our food. Here, at my house, I don’t have to fight anyone for food because there’s never any food to fight for. So I guess it’s better.

             
The front door opens and then slams shut and I think they’re leaving, but then there’s a knock on my door and I automatically hold my breath. Maybe if I pretend I’m not here than he’ll leave me alone. I know it’s not Mom because she never knocks on my door. I can’t even remember the last time she was in my room.

             
“Lo? You in there?” asks Mom’s boyfriend.

             
Since I don’t know his name, I call him Al, but only in my head, even though he doesn’t look like an Al. He looks more like a John or a James but those names sound nice and I don’t want to think that this man is nice. I let go of the breath I’m holding and hold my chin up.

             
“Come in,” I tell him, sounding much more confident than I feel.

             
The doorknob jiggles. “It’s locked, sweetie.”

             
With a sigh, I get up and walk over to the door and unlock it before running back to the floor by my bed. It opens slowly and Al peaks around it before opening it the rest of the way and stepping just inside my room.

             
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes shifting over my small space.

             
I watch him carefully, looking for a sign as to what he’s thinking or what he plans on doing. The door is still open behind him and his eyes aren’t glossy like Mom’s always are. He looks honestly curious so I decide to answer him. “I’m fine.”

             
He finally looks at me. “Does she always talk to you like that?”

             
“Like what?” I say, holding his eyes, daring him to ask again. Or maybe even say something about how wrong it is.

             
But I can tell he doesn’t know how to respond. I can see that he feels sad for me and I can tell that he wants to say more, but he just sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Well, it was good to meet you.”

             
I don’t respond, just watch him as he moves from one foot to the other until he finally leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving me confused. And…sad. For a minute, I thought someone actually cared. And now I’m alone. I’m always alone.

             
I turn my attention back to the drawing I was working on and forget about the worry in Al’s eyes or the fact that my Mom is gone again and who knows when she’ll be back. It’s not a very good drawing and it’s not really of anything at all, but it reminds me a lot of my life and it helps me feel like I can do something other than be alone.

The afternoon passes by and Mom doesn’t come back. When it gets dark out and she’s still gone, I sneak out to the kitchen and look for something to eat. All I find is some crackers and spray cheese but it’s more than I thought I would find so I run back to my room and eat every single last crumb. It makes me feel kinda sick but I pat my belly happily and get into bed.

Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I hear the front door open and somebody stumbling around inside. I keep myself still and quiet my breathing so that I can hear everything. Eventually I figure that Mom’s alone and she’s drunk. She moves around in the kitchen for a while before I hear her thumping down the hallway towards my room. I pull the blankets up around my neck and squeeze my eyes shut.

Keep walking keep walking keep walking.

The footsteps stop. The doorknob jiggles. I forgot to lock it.

Light pours in, but only for a minute because then Mom is inside my room and she closes the door behind her.

“Sugar plum?” she whispers. “You awake?”

Even though I never answer, she still climbs into my bed with me and settles under the covers. She smells like sweat and beer and smoke and it’s making me nauseous but I keep pretending I’m sleeping or else she’
ll start talking.

“I just had the most awful night, Sugar Plum.”

She squeezes me tight against her and breathes into my hair, tickling my neck and sending shivers down my whole body. When she’s drunk like this, her southern accent comes out and I’m reminded that there was a time when we didn’t live in this big city and we maybe even were a family. That there was a time when she smelt like flowers instead of alcohol and her dark hair was full and shiny instead of the pasty mess it is now. Maybe people stopped us in the grocery store and told us how alike we look, with our matching dark skin and honey brown eyes. Maybe they called us beautiful. I don’t remember, though. We came here when I was little and it’s the only place I know. This version of Mom is all I have, in this run down house in the middle of this huge, loud city with her boyfriends and her drinking and her drugs.

Her hand wraps around mine and all I want to do is rip it out and run far, far away.
“It’s always just me and you, baby girl. You remember that.”

Mom falls asleep fast, snoring in my ear and breathing her beer breath all over me. I don’t sleep at all. I never do when she holds me because it feels all wrong.
All I do is wonder if it’s supposed to feel wrong when a Mama holds her baby girl.

January 7, 1998

             
The next morning I wake up alone and I realize I must have fallen asleep at some time during the night. That bothers me because I should have stayed awake all night, uncomfortable and angry. But instead I let her hold me. Maybe I even liked it. I lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of the house before deciding that Mom is back in her room and still sleeping. So I get up and get ready for school as quietly as possible so that I don’t wake her up.

             
Except when I go out to the kitchen, I see her asleep on the couch and she isn’t alone. What time did she come into my room? Was the strange man with her the whole time? Why did she even come into my room at all if she wasn’t alone? What if the man had followed her in?

             
Now I’m mad at her, madder than I’ve ever been. For coming into my room. For bringing some random guy home. For being asleep on the couch, half naked, instead of getting ready to take me to school. For letting me see a half-naked man when I’m only eight years old.

             
When I leave the house, hungry and mad, I slam the door behind me just to make sure she hears it.

             
“You bitch!” I hear her yell before I take off running.

             
By the time I get to the bus stop I’m all sweaty but not out of breath. I’ve been running to this bus stop every day since the first day of kindergarten. In P.E. class when we have to run the mile, I’m the only girl who finishes the whole thing without complaining. I used to always finish first but it made the boys mad and they sometimes would corner me and push me around, so I started letting them finish before me. Now they only push me around every once in a while.