Cash was Emma’s touchstone at school. When he was not walking beside her she wondered if she even existed at all or was just an imaginary figment or hologram. At least when she was younger there was teasing and even ridicule from her peers, mainly about her brother or occasionally rhyming her last name Lanrete to Tahiti…Emma Lanrete should move to Tahiti…, but as she got older she appeared to grow invisible. Distain or torment at least showed some level of interest, being totally ignored was insufferable. The intense and unrelenting pain of not feeling of worth chipped away at her day after day.
The only student who did not look past or through her was Cash. Thus he validated that she did exist. His situation was not much better in the hierarchy of high school, but the difference was he did not care. Emma and his tech world were enough. She believed he was a genius in the IT world, but was glad he allowed her non-artificial intelligence to invade it. They only had one class together, but walked between classes as often as their scheduled allowed.
First period was choir class for her and software design for him at different ends of the first floor hallway, so they parted ways at the junction and her solo trek began. Look down at the floor, look down at the floor was her mantra, better that than up at the ceiling lest she trip and get trampled in her invisible state. Maybe she should stare into the eyes of those she passed and see if there was any glimmer of recognition, but she was not sure she was prepared to handle what she would find.
Choir was not her favorite class, but she enjoyed music so it ranked near the top. She wished her voice was better and that she was either a clear soprano or alto instead of hovering in the middle as second soprano. The music was not as fun to learn, but she sang her part. The choir director Mr. Quinn loved Jazz and Emma did not, but there were enough ballads and soft pop songs to keep her singing. Singing prevented her dwelling on the fact no one spoke to her and was an evaluated form of communication. She did not expect others to do all the work in befriending. In years gone past she had made an exerted effort to cultivate friendships to no avail. She now knew her place and attempted to make the best of it.
Emma did have another friend once, well she thought Tess was her friend. There was a perky blonde girl in her choir class a few years back that struck up a conversation with Emma and they sort of hit it off. They both liked music obviously and enjoyed reading too. Emma started dividing her time at school between Cash and Tess, since Cash had no interest in expanding their horizons into a threesome. She still spent more time with Cash, but it was different, Tess gave her a connection to the female world she had been missing.
The girls never did any activities outside of school together, but Tess started seeking invitations to come to the Lanrete home. That should have been Emma’s first red flag perhaps. But after a few requests, Emma submitted and Tess rode the bus home with Emma one day. Maybe Tess really did want to be her friend, but the juicy gossip about the bizarre Lanrete home was too tantalizing not to share. Not long after the “playdate” Emma heard students snickering behind her back, making snide comments or mimicking snippets of dialog from private conversations she had held with Tess.
Emma felt ultimate betrayal. Tess apologized many times, but the trust was massacred. Emma never did uncover if the friendship had been real at any point, or if it had always been a seek and find mission to share with her other group of girlfriends. It did not matter to Emma, she went back to her safety zone with the gentleman Mr. Cash Burton. He never said “I told you so”, he was just there to catch her when she fell. These memories came flooding back as they pulled out their music folders to begin EMH’s mixed choir.
Today they were working on “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel. That was the story of her life so she expressed her emotions in full voice with eyes shut…
“When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all,
I’m on your side, oh, when times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down…”
Okay, Cash wasn’t really her bridge, who was her bridge, she needed a bridge. She wasn’t really a needy person and she knew life was not fair, but a lifeline of some sort would be nice. She hoped she was singing the right words while her mind was thinking of others, so went mentally back into words and mind being on the same page…
“Sail on silver girl, sail on by,
Your time has come to shine,
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind”
She would love to shine and would have to ask Simon or Garfunkel who was sailing right behind that would ease her mind? Were they writing about God or was it a metaphor. She was not sure God was right behind her these days. Where was he with Arty or her mother. Anyway, song therapy time was almost over.
Second period she suffered through Chemistry with brooding Mr. Busby, then got to spend 3rd period with Cash in Algebra. She liked math, it was logical and not messy or confusing. The formulas were firm and you worked for a clear, defined outcome. Cash was great at math of course so if she struggled he could always help, but usually they were both on task and enjoyed just being in the same classroom knowing an ally was close if needed.
They had first lunch together after Algebra. Both packed pathetic lunches and ate in the bleachers in the gym away from the cafeteria pecking order. Today she had a semi-smushed banana and a snack pack of Fritos corn chips. Cash had beef jerky and an apple from last fall’s harvest with one worm hole in it. The food did not matter so much as the banal chatter about their day so far. He offered to hum happy birthday for her, but she emphatically declined. This meager mealtime was enough to help her face the rest of her day.
Unpleasant PE class was after lunch. Not that she was not fit enough, but she was not what you would call athletic and the whole team-picking thing was horrific from her level of teen status. Today was the mile run, or more like jog for most, so that wasn’t too bad.
Her favorite period of the day was her fifth period English class, Mrs. Dudley’s creative writing class. Mrs. Dudley appeared to be a hold-over hippy from the 60’s trapped in a time warp. She wore her hair a longer length than usual for a woman her age interwoven with many colors, but mainly gray. The style looked like she either ratted it randomly or was going for the unkept look. Round metal frames circled her thick prescription lenses obscuring her eye color and making her look a little like the fifth Beatle. Her clothes were flowing, often floral and rarely matched. She was quite relaxed with a pleasant laid back personality and played music for them to write to. She embodied a character Emma would relish writing about one day or least find time to hang out with.
Today she was playing a Dan Fogelberg vinyl record from the 70’s and gave them the prompt “Oak Tree” to include somewhere in their writing. Mrs. Dudley probably didn’t like Emma any more than the rest of the students, but they all felt like she liked them best. That was the gift of a true teacher, to make every student feel special or at least be able to identify unique gifts in each one. She had given Emma a compliment once about her woeful writing that meant the world to her. She had written in red on the top of one of her papers… “You make me feel grit and emotion with your words.” It made Emma feel she might actually be good at something, so she always gave her best efforts to express herself when writing, especially in this class.
In this room it did not matter what the other students thought about her, she was autonomous, just her, her mentor and the words on the page that took her away from it all. She had trouble with happy endings, but could crank out some pretty intense stuff. Today she would wrap her words around an oak tree, maybe a girl would fall from it and break her neck and die. Powerfully dark words dripped on the page. When cathartic time was over, she gathered her pages and hustled out the door to end her day with World History.
History was okay besides retaining all the names and dates. It was interesting to study where civilizations came from, but depressing to see how little progress the world had made in their relationships with one another. Most humans seemed to be slow learners. The head football coach Mr. Almquist was the teacher and he catered to the jocks and their mentality, so the rest of the class mostly sat and soaked in all the testosterone that saturated the history lessons. The closing bell finally rang.
Before heading out the heavy double doors Emma decided to drop by the bathroom to quickly to relieve herself before the bumpy ride home. As she entered the putrid smelling space she noticed some female occupant had decided to decorated the mirror with lipstick. The poor janitor would be there late tonight scrubbing off that waxy mess. A name in lipstick lines caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She stopped her in her tracks. Her name was on the mirror and it was not a happy birthday wish, but instead comments she could not repeat to her mother if her mother could hear them. She supposed she should feel pleased she was remembered at all, but the message was sickening.
Without taking time to grab a paper towel, Emma smeared the words into a blur with the palm of her hand. They were gone, but the red remnants remained. If she took time to clean them off she would miss the bus. She could walk, but it would take hours and Joy would be worried. She looked at the mirror again and with her already glossy palm gave the cherry red smear a shape. At least the custodian would be greeted by a heart rather than vulgar words a he worked to remove the make-up mess. She wished she had escaped her school day before reading that anti-birthday sentiment. What were the odds? At least school was over with only one major faux pas. That was birthday present enough from good ole EMH she guessed.
The bus ride home was brutal since Cash had to stay for a robotics meeting after school to discuss the robot he was making for some science project. He promised to check in before the end of the day to see how her birthday finished, a true sacrifice since talking on the phone was painful for him. She could have told him right now how her day would end. She would arrive home, give Arty a hug and let him drag her around to see whatever he had to silently share with her. Next wander down the hallway and spend some daily designated time at her mother’s bedside, reading to her one of their favorite books and massaging her stiffening hands. Then help Joy fix, feed and clean up dinner, before doing some homework and dropping into bed. There might be a birthday cake, but she would not hold her breath. She didn’t blame anyone for not remembering, but maybe her dad a little. After-all, he was actually there the day she was born and should have remembered.
Emma headed straight to her bedroom when she walked through the front door of her home and took her bird book out from between her semi-comfortable memory foam mattress with box springs beneath. She opened to the blank pages in the back. They were probably there to take notes when bird watching, but it had become a place to pour out her pent up pain and clear her mind of rogue thoughts. She began to paint her day on page.
4-6-2016
Dear birds who can fly away anytime you wish, I dread writing a recap of my bleak 16th birthday. Hopefully it will be cathartic not more depressing. Not sure why I even keep you hidden. There is not much to write about and even less who would want to read what is written. I guess this is more a place for writing practice filled with my free flowing thoughts. There are many things in my heart and mind that I would never dare express out loud. Who to express it to anyway, Dad isn’t here, Arty wouldn’t understand, Cash might disappear and Joy is basically hired help, so she would be paid to listen, but.…no this is a safe place where controversial words will never see the light of day. But since my words are placed here on a page in bold uneraseable ink, they may end up immortalized in the end if found. Haha, darned if I do and darned if I don’t.
I actually told my mom today about my “one year plan” that we’ve discussed. I guess I do share things with her. I must say, her input and response back is a bit limited or not at all!!! Advice from her would be precious to me. I know she has no ulterior motives, only my best in mind. And that is where she keeps it, in her mind, sealed closed and trapped for who knows how long. I need my mom!!!
School was school. No one remembered my birthday but Cash. Not surprising I know. I was not expecting anyone else to anyway. There was a tribute on the bathroom mirror that would have been better left unexpressed, but I doubt that was birthday related. If it was the person who wrote it with lipstick is one sick puppy. Yikes. Why are people so mean.
Cash carved me a crane. How cool is he?! If it wasn’t for him I probably would have a one month plan instead of a one year one. I can hold the crane in my hand and rub the smooth wood with just a few jagged edges where he attempted tiny feathers I think. Maybe I can use it like a worry rock and rub it when I feel stressed. If not, I will leave it on my dresser to look over me like a bird-angel with wings. But since they are wooden it cannot fly away from me.
I wish I had something meaningful or inspiring to write. Maybe one day I will or one day I will be gone and all these futile, worthless words will end abruptly. I think I will go get a hostess cupcake and stick a candle on it for my birthday celebration. Maybe I will even light it, make a wish and blow out the candle. Where would I begin with what to wish for….my possible wishes could be the length a novel. Maybe I will go read a book to Arty instead. It always makes me feel better to spend time with that sunshiny little man and feel needed. He likes me.
Signing off until we meet pen to page again, Emma”
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