Rise

Ever since the Incident, I make prank calls. I only call misfits. Kids with less friends than me. Which seems impossible since my family just moved here at the end of summer. But I’ve got a radar for weirdos: A boy who can’t be more than eighty pounds and always has dandruff flakes on his shoulders. A chubby kid who eats his lunch out of a Flintstones lunch box. (Someone should tell him there are NO lunch boxes in junior high.) A girl who’s as tall as some of the male teachers. A girl who wears an obvious wig. Their desperation clings to them like fingerprints on windowpanes. Walking the eighth-grade hallways, I watch these sad sacks and know they have no clue. I’m not popular, but I’m working on elevating my status, complimenting the right kids, NOT hanging with losers. My call strategy is to prank one sorry kid at a time. When I think they are close to figuring out it’s me, I move on to my next victim.

I lighten my hair with Sun In stolen from Arthur’s Drugstore. I long to become blond, like the beautiful Laura on General Hospital, but my luck is for shit, and my hair turns orange. My mother says she cannot look at me. I think she’s being mean. To punish her I silently call my parents only by their first names. Sarah (that’s my mother) says, Ana, you look like a skunk. Which makes no sense because skunks are black and white, not black and orange. She turns to my father. Don’t you think?

Tim shrugs, goes back to his sports page. He sells real estate, which makes him a freak about keeping his car clean. Tim works long hours so we can live in this house and pay for the recent construction of an outside ramp and a downstairs bedroom with an accessible bathroom for my younger brother, Simon. Behind my parents’ backs, I roll my eyes. I need to stay on Sarah and Tim’s good side to get clothes, rides to the mall, and cash. After I clean Tim’s car, including shining his hubcaps, he gives me the Macy’s card. Sarah says she will drive me. I plan to buy designer jeans, Calvin Klein or Sasson. Imagine my sexiness wearing the same jeans cheerleaders wear, girls who pass notes to other girls, girls who make out with ninth-grade boys. Bad boys like Buddy Sikes, with his dark eyes and pouty mouth. What I really want is a miniskirt. Last time I asked for one, Sarah said my legs looked like sausages. That meant no.

My current target is Kathy Pitts. Today in science class, while we were learning about how glass is really just grains of sand fused together by heat, I overheard two of the cool girls say her family is dirt poor, and that’s why she wears the same hideous pink pants every day, and her house is so broken down and filled with garbage, visitors can’t get through the front door. She might be the smartest girl in school, but she has zero friends.

I deepen my voice. Pretend to be a guy. Is Kathy there?

This is she.

My breath grazes the receiver. You are a disgusting SLUT!

I hang up. My evil heart rattles with excitement.

As if on cue, Simon’s high-pitched voice calls out from one room away. Ana! Our show is on!

If Simon hears my prank calls, he never says. Because of his limitations, his hearing is extraordinary. Sarah says he can hear an ant fart. I watch him after school until Sarah gets home from work. A dental hygienist, she stands all day scraping dead stuff off people’s teeth. Simon and I like it when she’s too tired to cook and comes home with a greasy rotisserie chicken and steak fries and buttery corn on the cob from ShopRite.

Simon and I are obsessed with General Hospital. Especially Luke and Laura. Laura serves drinks at the Campus Disco, which is run by Luke and is a front for the Mob. Luke and Laura flirt it up. An obvious romance is brewing, but there’s a hitch: Laura’s married, and the Mob has told Luke to carry out a hit that might get him killed.

At first I had to bribe Simon with Jiffy Pop popcorn to get him to agree to GH. He whined about missing his Spiderman cartoons. But I wanted to watch my soap opera in his bedroom, because it has new-carpet smell and the biggest TV in our house. Simon’s small, but we all know he will soon hit puberty and grow too big for Tim to carry upstairs like a golf bag. That’s why we have this giant first-floor bedroom and bathroom. All for Simon. I am not complaining. At dinner, with chicken grease shining on both our lips, he announces General Hospital is his new favorite show.

My home ec teacher, Ms. Madison, could pass as Laura’s double with her long blond hair, pink eye shadow, and clingy blue dress. Girls sitting in front of sewing machines whisper of her beauty. My sewing machine is near the quiet girls. The ones who make honor roll and are without boyfriends or best friends. We are the girls who have no one to whisper to. There are zero boys in home ec, which is fine. Boys take shop class and wear ugly goggles. Girls must take home ec, while boys have the option. We all know they don’t because they are scared shitless of being called gay. Random boys peep through the window in our door, fogging the glass with their open mouths. They’re always roaming the halls with a hard-on. Eighth-grade boys live to get an eyeful of Ms. Madison.

Ms. Madison says our big project is to sew one article of clothing we can wear at the eighth-grade fashion show. We can pick any pattern, but she must approve it. She says we might choose something too difficult and ruin the joy of sewing. I ask to sew a miniskirt. Perfect, Ms. Madison says. She smells like candy and strawberries. She points to the back of the room and suggests I use the brown corduroy leaning awkwardly against bolts of more-colorful fabrics.

Since the Incident, when I’m not watching GH, I retreat to my bedroom. Full-color posters of Robert Plant and Steven Tyler, both sweaty and shirtless, hang on my wall. If Sarah or Tim barges in—because there’s no such thing as privacy in this house—I pretend to be sleeping.

When I first use my hand, touching under my cotton underwear, I have no clue what sensations I should feel, or how to move my fingers, or how much pressure to apply. I have no close girlfriends to compare notes with. Sarah and Tim have told me zero about sex. Which is fine. I can’t imagine them having sex. EVER. Someone wrote “HORNY” on the girls’ bathroom wall. Maybe I want to be horny. Maybe I am a nympho. I imagine my hand belongs to Buddy Sikes. I rub down there as if polishing a glass paperweight, my face in a pillow to catch my moans. On floral sheets, I shatter into puddles of my own juice.

I get home before Simon every day. His new school is across town and full of kids like him. Kids with wheelchairs, intellectual disabilities, vision impairments, seizures. My brother has all of the above. Grown-ups stare at him in public. Kids look away. He’s the main reason we moved: so he could attend a school that’s equipped to work with his differences. I tell Simon his differences are superpowers. The rest of the world just hasn’t figured it out because the rest of the world is full of assholes. Simon likes it when I swear. Assholes, he says back. I tell him not to say this in front of Sarah or Tim. Simon yells, Assholes! Spit flies from his mouth. We crack up. Stop laughing, he says, or I’m going to pee.

Waiting for Simon’s bus, I sneak a cigarette behind our pine tree. I never smoke in front of anyone except squirrels. Tim keeps cartons of Newport Lights on top of our fridge. He calls them his “stash.” He’s clueless if a pack or two goes missing.

Simon’s small bus comes to a halt at the edge of our driveway. The door opens, and a wheelchair lift slowly slides out. This seems to take forever. So many things with Simon take forever. I want to yell at his driver to hurry up, but then Simon appears at the top of the lift with his big handsome face. I have cigarette smoke and pine in my hair. My brother’s black Chuck Taylors rest on metal footpads, his shoes too big for his feet.

Ana! Simon’s voice is a loud squeak. Today could be the day!

We both know he’s talking about Luke and Laura having sex. Simon knows what sex is because I told him. When he’s a little older, I might even sneak him some of the porno magazines Tim stupidly hides under his and Sarah’s bed, thinking no one will find them. Simon smacks a fist into his hand, one of the few movements his body can make with ease. This means he is excited. The bus driver, a roly-poly bald guy, pushes a button, and the lift with Simon on it slowly descends until he reaches the pavement.

Simon and I have this routine: I wheel him up the ramp and through our front door, which I’ve propped open with a rock. Once he’s inside, I kick the rock away. Then I push my brother to his new bedroom and park him at the foot of his bed. This is where the grunt work begins. I unbuckle his lap belt and undo the velcro strips holding down his feet. I squeeze my forearms under each armpit and use all my might to pull him to standing. (I’m getting biceps.) He leans on me for support.

Ready? I say, and I guide his rigid body next to his bed, which is made up with Spiderman sheets. I’m not strong enough to hold Simon upright for more than a few seconds. I have no choice but to drop him. He always lands sideways on his mattress. I once asked if he minded the falling part, but he said it’s fun. I ask if he wants to pee. He can’t pee without help and holds his piss all day at school. If Simon says yes, I bring him a plastic urinal.

The hardest part of our routine is removing the body brace, which runs from his hip bones to his armpits. An inch-thick plastic corset cinched tight by four velcro straps. A contraption he’s supposed to wear eight hours a day to keep his spine from growing crooked. Sometimes I can’t get the rip, rip, rip, rip sound out of my head. With the brace off, Simon’s ribs expand like a balloon. This makes me wonder if, during his school day, he ever takes a real breath.

When he came home the day of the Incident, Simon could tell I was upset.

What’s wrong? His usual smile was replaced with concern. If someone was mean to you, you should tell Mom. He slammed a fist into his hand in anger.

I wasn’t about to tell Simon what happened. Buddy Sikes was one of the popular kids. Simon wouldn’t understand. Not because of his differences, but because he was still at the age where a clear line separated right from wrong.

Simon, nothing’s wrong. Just drop it. OK?

He looked confused but agreed.

The skirt pattern comes printed on membrane-like tissue paper. Taking straight pins from a stuffed tomato pincushion, I secure the pattern to the corduroy. When Ms. Madison first suggested the brown fabric, I hated it. But as I work with it, my opinion shifts. The brown is soft and buttery and makes my orange hair look almost pretty. Maybe Ms. Madison knew it would look good on me. She approves my pinning. The next step is to cut the pattern from the corduroy. Ms. Madison makes us sign out the scissors. Unlike the velcro rip sound, which makes me sad, the snip of scissors cutting through fabric soothes me. Heavy and sharp, my scissors could be weapons. I imagine stabbing Buddy Sikes and his friends in the dicks and watching them bleed out in front of their lockers. I don’t have the guts to do something like that. But a girl can dream.

Things are heating up with Luke and Laura. Simon and I eat our shared Jiffy Pop in front of the TV. He’s watching from bed. I’m sitting in his wheelchair. My brother can manage food only if it doesn’t require utensils, because he lacks hand-eye coordination. I pour us two glasses of Tab. His gets a straw. My job is to lift his glass and bring the straw to his mouth. We watch Luke, whose blond hair has a new perm. He is borderline angry all the time. We know there’s a good chance he will be murdered. Innocent Laura doesn’t have a clue.

Ever since my parents told me Simon was born with a brain that can’t send signals to his muscles like everyone else, I’ve been hyperaware of my body’s ability to move. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of times, I’ve lain in bed bending, lifting, lowering, and shaking my limbs, imagining what it’s like to be in my brother’s body. Many times I’ve asked myself: Would I trade bodies with Simon if this were possible? The answer is always no. The guilt feels heavy, like the massive amounts of Fig Newtons and pretzels I sometimes pig out on.

I will not hang up this time. She will have to do it first. My finger dials her number.

Is this Kathy? For reasons I cannot explain, I decide not to disguise my voice.

Yeah. She sounds different. It occurs to me this might be how she sounds when pissed off.

I decide to say nothing for the rest of the call.

I know it’s you, Ana.

I feel exposed, a tangle of blue veins and slimy organs under glass skin. Am I that obvious?

You are a mean, SHITTY person! Soft-spoken Kathy is practically screaming. Kids only pretend to be nice to you. EVERYONE knows what happened with Buddy Sikes!

Sitting at our kitchen table, phone cradled between my neck and ear, I will myself not to hang up. Kathy makes wet sniffing sounds. She is pathetic. My mind is going crazy. What are Buddy and his friends saying? Does everyone think I’m a slut? My hand is shaking.

Kathy’s sniffing becomes sobbing. I sit on my end and take it: the swallows, the gasps, the sounds of blowing snot. Salty, wet bits of popcorn rise to the back of my throat. I welcome the burn. I deserve it. I have a pen in my hand, and I’ve written “SLUT” on the back of my hand in two-inch letters. SLUT is staring at me. SLUT, SLUT, SLUT, SLUT. Kathy must have hung up. The dial tone buzzes for some time before I return the receiver to its hook.

Please, Luke, I want to help you, Laura says. Her blue eyes are wide and trusting.

You can’t! says Luke. We can tell by the way he looks away from her he is doing everything in his power to restrain himself. Will he break down and cry, or scream in anger?

Luke storms past her to the bar and pours a drink.

Luke, please don’t drink. It’s not going to solve anything, says Laura. But Luke knows there’s a hit out on him. He could die tomorrow. Disco lights flash across the room, splashing the back wall covered in tinsel.

I’m in love with you, says Luke with his awkward permed hair. Laura is his one true chosen love. Mad with desire, he pulls her body in close.

At the start of the school year, my chest was flat. Then, right before the leaves turned pretty shades of red and orange, my boobs decided to grow overnight. To the point where it became obvious I needed a bra. Not a training bra either.

Walking home from school, I passed bad boy Buddy Sikes and his two equally bad friends. They stared at my chest, lit cigarettes in their hands. One boy leaned on his BMX bike. My skin pricked. As I got closer, they laughed, jeered, and called out barely recognizable words. Bad breath steamed my face as they closed in. Boy-sweat smell. Single-minded zombies, they touched me with their grubby hands, showed teeth and tongues. They yelled, ANA, ANA, ANA! When I hit the ground, broken glass cutting through my jeans, it was only for a second. I fought my way up, arms swinging, legs kicking. Still, one of them, or maybe more than one, managed to get his fat hands under my shirt and squeezed both my boobs hard. Then the boys were gone. Disappeared into the glossy autumn light.

Now the trees outside Simon’s bedroom window are leafless, their menacing branches bending in the wind. On the TV Laura shakes her head at Luke.

I don’t think it’s really love, Luke—

Oh yes, Luke says. That’s what it is.

Simon lets out the shrill noise he makes when he’s excited.

Luke turns up the knob on the club’s stereo. The sound of a seductive trumpet fills the room.

I don’t want to be your friend, Laura, Luke says. Look what you’ve done to me! I’m not going to die without holding you in my arms just one time.

He draws Laura toward him and sways their bodies to the silky trumpet music. When he kisses her, Laura tries to break away. It’s too late. Luke pulls her down to the floor.

The camera pans to the disco lights shimmering on the tinsel wall in the background. Laura is screaming: NO! LUKE! NO!

For a few weeks after the Incident, Sarah kept asking if something was wrong. There is no planet on which I would tell her what happened. What if she thought I did something to bring it on? Plus, I overheard her tell Tim she’s unhappy and misses her old neighborhood and friends. How does she think I feel? What if I invited someone over and they made fun of Simon—or, even worse, ignored him like he didn’t exist? What if they judged us because of his plastic urinals, his walker, his leg braces and chest brace strewn around the house?

I must seem better now, because Sarah has stopped asking. Sometimes I imagine swallowing pills or slitting my wrists. Offing myself would not be cool because of Simon, but it pleases me to picture every kid from junior high, including Kathy Pitts, solemn faced or outright sobbing, standing in an endless line, waiting to see my dead body lying in an open coffin with satin lining, a red rose between my fingers. I imagine Buddy Sikes and his friends feeling like shit for as long as they live.

For weeks GH shows flashbacks of the Luke-and-Laura rape scene, morphing it into something dreamy and romantic. For weeks Simon and I relive the whirling lights and the tinsel and the hypnotic rhythm of the song that was playing, which has been on the radio ever since: Herb Alpert’s “Rise.” Instead of the song reminding us of wrongdoing, the trumpet becomes a warm and melodic presence, sultry and sophisticated.

Even though I tell myself not to, I call Kathy Pitts.

After she says hello, I say nothing, just breathe into the phone. I’m not sure what I expect. Maybe for her to scream, call me names, threaten to go to the police. But she doesn’t. Instead Kathy Pitts is silent on the other end. At one point she says, I can sit here as long as you want.

I hang up first, but only after I’ve stopped crying.

My finished miniskirt hangs on a portable clothing rack in the home ec room. The brown corduroy looks sickly next to all the colored and patterned pieces. The skirt’s not perfect. The hem has crooked stitching. But no one else’s project is perfect either. Except maybe Kathy’s blue jumpsuit. I saw it earlier in the week, when Ms. Madison had us walk around the classroom and admire each other’s work.

When I asked Sarah if she wanted to come to the fashion show, I expected her to say no, but she said she’d love to. The school’s auditorium is not wheelchair accessible—most places aren’t—so Simon had to stay home with Tim.

The home ec room has been transformed into a dressing room. We unpopular girls turn our backs to everyone as we strip down to bras and underwear. The popular girls don’t care who sees them half naked and tell each other how cute they are. There’s a rumor going around that Ms. Madison might give awards. I’ve brought a black sweater and black tights to go with my miniskirt. This morning Sarah surprised me with a pair of brown leather Frye boots. Expensive boots. I was stunned. We are supposed to be saving up for a wheelchair van. The boots complete my outfit. I chose to sew the miniskirt as a way of saying fuck you to Sarah, but now I’m not so sure.

In the mirror I check to see if my legs look like sausages. I reassure myself they don’t. My reflection looks like any cool kid, even though I am a nervous wreck. Across the room, Kathy is wearing her jumpsuit and brushing her shining hair. I’ve never seen her wear anything but her awful pink pants, and I’m surprised by how cute she looks. When she walks near the nucleus of cool girls, some of them stare. If there’s a first-place medal, she deserves it.

Mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters, brothers, and friends fill the auditorium. Scanning the audience, I find Sarah, looking like any normal mom, a stylish paisley scarf around her neck. Unlike the others, she’s alone. Ms. Madison makes us girls wait at the top of the stairs going down to the stage. The lights go dark. A surprise disco ball hangs like a moon from the ceiling, a planet made of mirrors. The room grows silent. The music begins. Most of us recognize the song: Herb Alpert’s “Rise.”

When it’s time for us to descend the stairs toward the stage, my legs feel like they might shatter. We rehearsed this earlier. Ms. Madison told us not to rush. We step onstage, all eyes upon us, then stand there while Ms. Madison holds a microphone and explains each girl’s project. The first girl to walk to the front of the stage is Kathy Pitts. Ms. Madison describes her blue jumpsuit as the most complicated pattern of the bunch. The audience applauds. Some kids yell out her name.

When it’s my turn, the amphitheater quiets down. In my new Frye boots I take my place at center stage. Infinite disco lights splinter my skin into stars.

Ms. Madison says my skirt is more complicated than it appears. Ana had to sew in a zipper and did an excellent job.

I turn my back to the audience so they can see the zipper. Herb Alpert’s trumpet notes move with me. The familiar melody sways in my brain. When I face the audience, all eyes are on me. I catch a glimpse of Sarah, who brings a hand to her mouth and does a two-finger whistle.

The audience begins to clap. The crystal lights spin. They shine through me. I am light and glass. Glass made from sand. I feel like a million tumbling grains.