Rain

Rain:  Rain is Kayla’s (OGW 2, Oct.1,2009) best friend.  Rain’s mother recently took off to become a dancer in NYC, Rain’s father is an alcoholic.  This is the morning of the belly button piercing and the party Kayla was so eager to attend.

Rain:  My mother didn’t come home today.  She said she’d be here for the weekend, but she didn’t show up Friday night, and Saturday morning she called to say, “I’m performing at Dancespace tonight!  Remember that piece—“

I didn’t remember.  I didn’t want to.  Tears leaked over my cheeks.

“You can come to the city and see me tonight and stay at my friend Wendy’s apartment, you can sleep on the couch.  Are you happy for me?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m proud of you.  You’re really making it on your own now.”

“I am.  It’s wonderful to feel the real me peeking out again, you know?  Not a wife or a servant or a – well, I’ll always be your mother, of course.  Can you make a ten o’clock train?”

“No thanks Mom.
“Oh! ...Oh.”

“You said you were going to take Kayla and me to get our belly buttons pierced before the party!  And you said you were going to be here!”

“Well Rain, I’m sorry, but this performance is important to me.  I have to dance, I just have to.  It’s my spirit, it’s my soul, it’s--”

“I gotta go.  Love you Mom.” 

Then I slumped against the wall, slid down to the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees and softly cried.  My father came in, sat next to me, put his arm around me, and held me while I cried harder.  “She never wanted to be my mother!  I ruined her life.”

Dad pat my back.  “You could never ruin anyone’s life.”  He got up.  The last remaining flap of hair on top of his head was standing on end. 

I smiled.  Getting up, I asked, “Juice?”

“The usual,” he said.

I made him a strong screwdriver that was mostly vodka, two ice cubes, and a splash of OJ.  “Can you take Kayla and me to get our belly buttons pierced today?  Mom was gonna do it.”

“I don’t know, noodle.  I’m not feeling so well today.“  He took a long swallow, then stared down at his hand, which was still shaking.  After finishing the drink, he was steadier.  “I’m not so sure I approve of you mutilating your body anyway,” he said.

“Dad…”  I poured him another drink, and just orange juice for myself.

“Yeah, okay, I guess.  If I’m feeling better.  I think I’m coming down with something.”

He said that every day, and I paid no attention.  “Oh Daddy, you’re the best!”  I said, and meant it.  If it weren’t for him, what would I do?  Sleep on some stranger’s ratty couch in New York City?  Not me.  I hated dancing, too, hated it!  Dad would never take off to find himself when I needed him.  He would never do that to me.

“I’m gonna shower.  You, eat something!  You’re too thin!” he said, peeling my arms off where I’d thrown them around him, and topping off his drink before heading upstairs.  “And make some coffee!” he yelled down.

“I’m gonna call Kayla and tell her she can come over.”

He didn’t answer.  I knew what he was doing, he was crying.  Crying over my mother.  Crying that we were left out of her new life, and because he had a pounding headache, and he had to deal with me and my friends – make us happy – anyway.

     Sighing and setting my face to “impassive,” I stopped thinking, and busied myself with making a pot of coffee.  I would drink it black today.  Thick and black to grow me up, and I wasn’t going to tell anyone, even Kayla, that I was afraid.

Maree

Maree is a newcomer Outsider Girl.  I don’t know where she came from or where her story will go, but I find her to be funny, with an interesting perspective on things, and I expect she’ll be back in later posts.

Maree:

My little sister, eight, believes God lives in McDonald’s, because she says, there he can get a hot meal anytime he wants.

My four year old brother just told me he only likes white guys, like Batman, and Spiderman, Wolverine and Superman, Steve and Joe from Blue’s Clues.  Phineus and Ferb.  I’m worried, because his new school will be ninety percent black and hispanic.  Hopefully, he’ll meet some new Superheroes there. 

My oldest sister, Marla, twenty-two, is a Christian missionary to missionaries. Wrap your head around this -- she helps missionaries get closer to Christ.  She had to raise a whole lot of money to get this job, but I didn’t say anything about how backwards that seemed, and didn’t dare get smart and ask how God’s dental plan is. 

Everyone thinks Marla’s so great, except me.   I think she’s crazy and kind of a bully besides, but then I had to grow up with her lording it over me -- no pun intended (get it?  “Lord”, hardeeharhar).

So then there’s me, in the middle.  Last night I gave my first blow job, in the bushes behind a party, and Christopher, that was the guy, called me an angel, but he hasn’t called today, or answered any of my texts. 

I guess you’d say I’m Godless.  But it’s not like I don’t care.  It’s not like I’m trying to break my parents’ hearts.  I’m looking for God, or something, anything out there that’s not me, but it’s hard, because when I’m mopping the floor, and wiping Markie's boogers, and scraping dried cheese off plastic plates... it seems like there is only me.  It seems like I can only be my own angel.

Gemma

Gemma first appeared in an unpublished short story, “Wings,” which may yet become a novel. Gemma’s mother abandoned her when she was a child. Mom was addicted to smoking faery dust, and now that Gem’s an adolescent she’s getting what all the daughters of dusters got – wings. Horrified and outcast, Gemma leaves home in search of her mother.

Gem:

1 am: It started as an itch I couldn’t get at, but it was driving me crazy. I thought I would scratch myself raw, I mean, I really almost did. Sleep is out of the question, and that pisses me off, because I’m a bitch when I don’t get enough sleep, plus I have a Biology test second period.

2 am: Biology Shmology. What I mean is, I found out that it's not a regular itch, and actually, I am an aberration of nature. A true freak.

3 am: (Sigh, then small breath in) Little breaths as though I'm panting. I have a scissors. But then I find I can't mutilate myself, even if my self is changing and I don't like it.

4 am: Thinking of my mother. A lot.

5 am: The wings aren't going to go away. I can't cut them off. I can't scratch them off (duh). I can't just ignore them, and I don't know how the other girls with wings -- like Hope, like Mommy -- I don't know how they ever slept with all the annoying fluttering and the stupid urge to fly (like I’d ever do that!). Damn, some girls just get their periods, and isn't that hard enough when you're all alone? But they don’t know suffering like this.

5:30 am: I have to get out of here, and GET THESE F*CKING WINGS OFF MY BACK!