The Realm of Possibility Page 10

  for him to take the tape off my face.

  Do you want it misaligned? he asked,

  and I knew instantly that he'd been

  unpopular in high school, which was why

  he'd branded me with this scarlet Loser

  to walk the halls with. It wasn't even

  the kind of bruise guys find brave.

  I complained to Amber, told her I hadn't

  deserved this. After all, I'd only been trying

  to warn that boy Andy. I remembered

  what her sister had done to his brother.

  I remember Mike being so sad that he couldn't

  understand when I tried to comfort him.

  I wasn't saying anything that wasn't a fact.

  I had his best interests at heart.

  Amber just nodded, told me I was right.

  I don't even think she was listening.

  And while I know I should have been

  grateful for her unquestioning loyalty—

  she was simply assuming I was right, after all—

  it still got to me. I reminded her that I was

  the one who had warned her about Jakob.

  Sure enough, he cheated on Brenda

  two weeks later. That could have been you,

  I reminded her. She sighed, said whatever.

  I tried to be a vigiliant person. Keeping watch,

  confronting people with the truth, even if

  it hurt them. In the long run, it was always better

  to know. That's what I believed. The poison

  cure. Then one day, right after my bandage

  had come off, I got to English class and found

  something written on my desk: YOU ARE UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. Other words had been written there, too. But I hadn't noticed them until this sentence appeared.

  I looked around. Who had done this

  to me? Why would they say that?

  I wanted to stand up right there and say

  I am a very commiserating person,

  thank you very much. But luckily

  I stopped myself. I realized that the words

  weren't meant for me. Just something

  written on a desk, some jerk venting.

  That should have been that. But the words

  stayed with me. When I sat down the next day

  there was something else: YOU ARE HAPPY

  EVEN IF YOU ARE AFRAID TO ADMIT IT.

  And the opposite happened. I realized that

  the words weren't meant for me,

  and that struck me just as hard. I took the bottled water out of my bag

  and tried to wipe the words away. It was no use.

  No matter how hard I tried, they wouldn't leave

  me alone. I saw people looking, wondering why

  I was attacking my desk with a wet tissue. I stopped.

  I knew Amber had English the period before me,

  so I asked her if she'd seen anything. She said

  yes, this obnoxious goth girl liked to write things

  all over her desk. Does she know me? I asked,

  and Amber looked at me like I was out of my mind.

  I got to English early the next day, and saw

  who she meant. This depressing girl, so far beyond

  a makeover. I stood there by the door as she left,

  waiting for some kind of recognition. When she

  passed by, I was relieved, and a little disappointed.

  But there it was on the desk again—YOU ARE

  FOOLISH IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. This time

  I just snapped. Why is she doing this? As I felt

  my unhappiness collecting in my throat. Why

  am I doing this? It still hurt to breathe sometimes,

  with the broken nose and all. Now it was a different

  kind of hurt. I felt foolish, yes. Foolish because

  I felt alone in this. How many times had I told

  someone The truth hurts. Without ever really

  knowing what it felt like, until that stupid desk.

  I switched seats. I tried to block it out. I looked

  at the boy who took my place, and he didn't seem

  fazed. Then the words started to appear other places.

  Sitting in a stall, doing my business, when suddenly

  I look up and see YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU BELIEVE

  YOU ARE. The same handwriting. Waiting for me.

  I thought of that question—Who do you think you are?—

  and realized that it's not one you ever get a chance

  to answer. I tried to answer it, right there in the stall.

  I am a good friend. I am a truth seeker. I am a

  bitch. A gossip. Someone who gets hit with a tray

  in the middle of the cafeteria and gets no sympathy.

  And I thought If I'm not any of these things, what am I?

  I tried to talk to Amber about it, but she said flat out

  that I shouldn't let any loser's graffiti get into my head.

  They're all out to get us, she said. And when I asked why,

  she just sighed and said, Because we're better, I guess.

  We have what they want. Two weeks ago, the same words

  would have come from my mouth. Now they seemed empty.

  I didn't feel any better. YOU WEAR TOO MANY MASKS

  was written over my locker the following day. This time,

  I had an answer. I thought, No, I only wear one.

  People were starting to talk about the writing. Everyone

  seemed to think it was about them. A personal attack.

  The old me had to admire the way this girl had managed

  to get under everyone's skin all at once.

  Some days it was just one word. PLEASE or ANYTHING.

  One day it was PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT.

  What I wanted was everything to go back to when my

  nose was straight and my behavior unquestioned (at least

  by me). I saw Andy and that girl who hit me walking the halls

  together, happy. I saw her balance his books on her head

  while he looked for something in his locker. I could have

  knocked them off as I passed. One simple mean reach.

  But instead I stayed in the background, alone.

  I went the long way through school, trying to collect

  all the phrases. I wondered if the goth girl kept a list.

  YOU SHOULD NOT WALK AWAY QUITE YET.

  When I found that one, in a corner outside the auditorium,

  I sat down and stared. Because what I wanted

  to walk away from was myself. In fact, I felt I'd already

  started. I took a bottle of nail polish out of my purse

  and traced the letters. This sophomore passed by and gave me

  a strange look. I told him to get lost. Then I dipped

  the brush in again, turned a W red. The smell of the

  nail polish made me think of Amber and the rest of

  my friends. I missed them, but in theory. It wasn't

  them I missed, but friendship. QUITE YET.

  I learned the goth girl's name when the principal called

  her down to the office. Charlotte Marshall. The words

  stopped coming. I didn't know what to do. I sat

  at the same lunch table, I went to the same classes.

  I stopped talking and nobody noticed, not unless

  there was something spiteful to be said. Amber asked me

  if I had gone on medication. Liza offered me some of

  her own. My mother took me shopping. I didn't

  know what to do with the four shirts I bought.

  Well, I knew to wear them. But it all seemed part

  of the mask. Was there anything underneath?

  A few days later, I saw Charlotte walking down

  the hallway. I saw writing on her arm, and before

  I knew what I was doing, I reached out

  f
or her wrist. YOU ARE IMPLICATED, it said.

  And suddenly I was asking her What do you mean?

  She looked at me, not knowing. Why are you

  doing this? She shrugged and I let go of her wrist.

  I was shocked: she didn't have any more answers

  than I did. She just knew how to raise the questions.

  That night, I locked myself in the bathroom.

  I let the water run, stood in front of the mirror.

  Then I took out the box of Crayola markers

  I'd had in my desk since I was a little kid.

  Most of them had dried out, but the green still wrote.

  I started on the inside of my arms. YOU ARE

  IMPLICATED. YOU ARE FOOLISH

  IN YOUR UNHAPPINESS. YOU ARE NOT

  WHO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. YOU WEAR

  TOO MANY MASKS. I tried her handwriting,

  but ended up with my own. PROTECT ME

  and I ran out of room. I turned over my arm

  FROM WHAT I WANT.

  My legs were next. In big letters. YOU ARE

  UNABLE TO COMMISERATE. YOU ARE

  UNABLE TO WALK AWAY. YOU HAVE

  NO ONE. YOU ARE NO ONE. I had forgotten

  what else she'd written. I was on my own now.

  YOU ARE FULL OF SPITE. YOUR FRIENDS

  ARE NOT REAL. YOU HAVE PUT YOURSELF

  IN THIS CORNER. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.

  The steam rising now. I took off my shirt

  and skirt, stood there in my underwear.

  BITCH. LIAR. LOSER. UGLY. SAD.

  I wish I could say it felt good, but it felt

  horrible. STOP CRYING. STOP IT NOW.

  YOU WILL GO TO COLLEGE AND

  EVERYBODY WILL HATE YOU.

  THIS IS THE TRUTH. DEAL WITH IT.

  All of these things had been inside me.

  Now they were spelled out, upside down

  so I could read them. Backwards in the mirror.

  I was ready to put down the pen, give up.

  But there was something else inside me, too.

  YOU ARE NOT BEING FAIR, it wrote.

  YOU CAN BE LOYAL. YOU CAN BE

  STRONG. YOU ARE SMART. YOU KNOW

  HOW THINGS WORK. The words were

  beginning to overlap. The marker was fading

  with every new letter. YOU KNOW WHAT

  YOU HAVE TO DO on the bottom of my foot.

  Then I did something one of the metalheads

  at school always does. HATE on the knuckles

  of one hand. LOVE across the other.

  I laughed when I saw myself in the mirror.

  I stared long and hard, so I would remember.

  Then I slipped into the tub. The water turned

  green instantly. I drained it out, let new water

  in. It was so hot I could barely tell the difference

  between my sweat and the steam. But I got

  used to it. I looked down at myself and most of

  the words were still there. I closed my eyes and

  I remembered what it was like when I was younger.

  The night before the first day of school, I would

  stand under the shower and make all kinds of

  resolutions. I will make new friends. I will

  be more popular. I will get good grades.

  And I swear I can remember, I will be

  a better person. At some point I stopped doing this.

  Maybe I forgot. Or maybe I knew the resolutions

  never carried over when I got to school.

  I WILL BE A BETTER PERSON. I know

  it's hard to believe. From me. From the bitch

  who got pummeled with an orange tray.

  But I knew—I hadn't become the worst kind

  of person yet. I had to believe that. I took

  down the washcloth and started scouring my skin.

  Floods of soap. My skin raw under the rub.

  The words vanishing, the letters erased.

  Only a green-tinted reminder. A ring around

  the tub once it emptied. A spot or two on my body

  that I'd missed. On purpose, for now.

  I did not apologize to Elizabeth, but I stopped

  saying she owed me an apology. I did not ditch my friends.

  I simply tried to shift the tone a little. It was hard

  sometimes, not to attack. But I felt some strength

  in the holding back. YOU WILL BE A BETTER

  PERSON. I wrote it wherever I could. What's

  gotten into you? Amber asked, looking at me

  seriously for the first time in ages. And I said,

  It's actually something that's gotten out of me.

  She didn't understand, and I honestly didn't

  expect her to. I have no more idea now of

  who I am than I did before. But at least I know

  that. And I'm starting to figure out who I want

  to be. Whether it was the tray, Charlotte's words,

  or something else that caused it to happen, all I can

  say is this: Being a bitch is easy. It's finding

  the alternative that's hard.

  the grocer's daughter

  the first delivery comes at six in the morning.

  usually I sleep through its arrival,

  leaning into the noise like a pillow,

  thinking of it as a sound that's passing by.

  but recently I have been rushing

  to the window, lifting

  the shade slightly to see him

  get out of the truck, say hello

  to my father, and lift the boxes into the store.

  one day I woke up early and he was there.

  one day I woke up early and kept waking early.

  if I am very quiet I can hear him speaking Korean to my father.

  it is not a language I learned.

  instead it was grown inside me.

  they talk about cantaloupes and tissue paper,

  other grocers and their misfortunes.

  sometimes he asks after my mother but never about me.

  my father would not tell him about me, unless there was a reason to boast.

  from my window, he is the most handsome boy.

  he cannot be much older than me.

  because of my parents, I cannot imagine

  his parents would let him get out of school.

  but I have never seen a book

  near him or heard him talk about classes.

  he must be older than me, but not by much.

  this handsome boy is the one I pictured

  when I was a girl and imagined

  walking down a red-carpet aisle, delicate

  blossoms in my hair, white as hope.

  I come home from school

  and I think of him

  as I move the old milk cartons to the front

  as I take the cigarette boxes from their cartons

  as I sweep the floor

  I do not ask his name.

  as my father checks my homework

  as my mother weighs the clove of garlic

  as we pull the metal over our windows

  as we tie the day's newspapers and throw them away

  I ask for nothing

  but these thoughts.

  Clara catches me in my notebook.

  I am tracing what I see when I close my eyes.

  “who is that?” she asks, and then

  she turns him so he is looking at her

  and says, “that's really amazing.”

  even after I close him in my book

  she asks me to tell her

  through lunch and after school

  so by the time we get to the store

  I have told her what little I know

  and she is happy for me.

  she gives me that look of advice

  and says, “you should talk to him.”

  but he is gone by sunrise.

  the morning after that


  I get dressed early and move closer.

  I am in the back room

  on the other side of the door

  breathing so loud I am sure he will hear

  breathing the beat of my heart

  as my father carries boxes

  and makes morning jokes.

  I see the boy in the space between the hinges

  and that is enough like touching

  for me to be happy.

  Clara is always telling me about boys

  the ones who are worthy of liking

  and the rest who will disappoint you to tears.

  I have felt things for other boys,

  felt without falling.

  friendship with Jed, because he was nice to me

  flirtation with Michael, because he was Korean and safe

  fluster for Simon, because he was not Korean and dangerous.

  but none of those other boys were like this one.

  nothing has ever felt this pure.

  “you were up early,” I tell my father,

  tempting fate, tempting knowledge.

  and he says, “you should get

  some sleep, you need your sleep.”

  no mention of his early

  companion, the boy who is not

  his son, but could be his son in the future.

  I am memorizing his shirts.

  I am seeing the way he bends as he lifts.

  on mornings when there is frost

  I wipe a trail for him across the glass.

  I see everything from above.

  one day I will wake up and

  he won't be there. he will

  disappear as he appeared and I will cry like a death

  foretold. part of what I feel for him is missing him.

  part of what I know is that distance is as hard as it is easy.

  I should talk to him.

  I know I should talk to him

  but I do not talk to him.

  I watch him from afar and love him.